Lucky Keogh
by V. G. Cajilig Jr
Summary: After Sir Harmond broke his promise in a conquest of Helmdock, his son fled from the village to find his estranged mother and restart a new life, a journey, and an undertaking on the terrains of the Onil continent that would attest whether he was indeed as what was proclaimed by the inscription on the hilt.
1. Prologue

Prologue

"_Civilization always comes with warfare shadowing."_

A troop of knights led by a good overlord were trudging on grubby armored feet, on their way to someplace after being defeated in a colossal conquest of their settlement. All of them wounded―incapacitating gouges and slashes―and had nowhere and no one to seek for redemption. Their king haplessly lost in the battle and his queen was taken along their properties―the castle, the people, the armory, the riches. Lucky for them to evade from the bed of their comrades' carcasses and thick, hovering dusts.

Miles and miles they walked, weathering starve, thirst, weariness, ache; all things they never experienced from their first breath. Till one of them had to take his last. The most wounded could not last to hold on any further. Gloomy woods, steep alps, mad rivers, harsh winters, dying comrades―all of these they had encountered but human hospitability. After sixty days or further of directionless journey―finally―an oasis! A humble place that they were certain of accepting them for the sake of humanity. Indeed like an oasis in the middle of Onil wilderness. Life was never over for our resilient knights.

It had no name back then but the place already housed about fifteen families. Logging was the primary source of livelihood; they were proximate to a nurtured forest that therefore detached them from the civilization. Besides, evident from their houses of sheer wood and greeneries were the gift of nature. It was one ingenuous hamlet roofed by soaring trees, thus, their complexion was predominantly brownish, close to fairness. Lord Ergan and his eight remaining men were received by the chieftain like ordinary stray guests. They were not the first guests to be welcomed, notwithstanding its remote and secretive location. Their gashes and injuries were mended with indigenous medications. As quick as a week or two, they were back on their feet and finally able to mingle with everyone and integrate, until the people got used to having them around. The knights stayed in the hamlet for good. Where could they find as good as the place, anyway? Lord Ergan and his men spearheaded teachings since they grew up in a civilized town―arithmetic, reading, writing, wielding of weapons, hunting, carpentry, etc. That way could compensate the humanity of the hamlet. Lord Ergan, by generally acknowledged acclamation, eventually became the leader when the old chieftain died in ageing after a year. He could make further innovations; that was what the people agreed about. As soon as everyone could find money not only from timbers but from their learning, Lord Ergan began to build a school, amenities, drainages, and more infrastructures, making the old humble Helmdock undistinguishable. Finally, he christened the hamlet that was now a village "Helmdock". Hence, the initial of civilization.

Generations had passed until Lord Ergan's son to a Helmdock native was the newly inaugurated leader, now termed as the king. That was when a castle was erected, towering above the village and revealing Helmdock above the lush foliage of the forest and to the neighboring societies, consequently made the village Onil's main source of lumber. He was King Mirodas, father of Prince Miro.

Helmdock remained as a sanctuary of nature notwithstanding the tremendous developments. The sylvan ambience was never gone. The brook providing water for everyday use was, as before, freely drifting from the evergreen mountain standing where the sun glanced breathtakingly every dawn. The only difference was an arching bridge of absolute ironwood built over it and now served as the moat, secluding the village proper. Across the bridge was where the houses settled, still home-grown oak and cypress but sturdier. Among the domestic buildings added were parlors, boutiques, and bazaars. All of them made of the finest lumber that Helmdock had to boast round Onil. In the midst of the woody structures was the square where it had a small concrete fountain―the heart of Helmdock―and plums and pines to shade every corner. Here, music was occasionally played by resident or visiting musicians as the people passed by, stayed to unwind, or to worship Balaccun for unending cornucopia of blessings. Asters, daisies, lavenders, violets, and other perennials were also planted and landscaped all around for the mountain and forest breeze to be more scented. Then as the sun set, light-bearing stilts would replace. Most of the denizens preferred to stay outdoors at night, beneath the moonlight. Helmdock was now still awake even after the day. Indeed, the old place of Lord Ergan was as if submerged into oblivion. Everything was reasonably metamorphosed.

"Civilization always comes with warfare shadowing," cautioned King Mirodas before he died and before he inaugurated his throne to his one and only son, so Prince Miro was prepared. Knights generally older than the prince were competently and persistently trained though no war had yet to disturb the Helmdock's terrain virginity. Not yet until the prince's dominion. Fortunately, they had won most of the battles against other monarchical troops and races within and even outside Onil for the same cause: to steal in envy Helmdock's foundation of wealth, the forest, and conquest the surrounding lands. Some attempted to set wildfire yet no luck favored their part; native foresters were likewise rigidly trained, attesting that fate and fortune was as if their champions. Most of the battles and encounters they won until…

"I promise you, son," the bravery and robustness of a knight streamed from his words through the squire below him, "this battle will end like the other ones."

The squire worded nothing. His hands trembling as he was planting the knight's foot into the quality plate boot. That the knight saw. He knelt on one knee that one knight never did intentionally before a squire. He lifted the young man's downcast face to look into his deep-sea blue eyes that he got from his mother.

"Listen, my son," the knight whispered in a low, sturdy voice but the squire bowed his sad face again to the varnished floor. "We already have bested among the four consecutive battles. And you know that. So, there is nothing to worry about."

Keogh, the yellow-haired seventeen-year-old squire, stared at his father's lighter blue eyes. Before his tears ran free from the darkening sacs, he jumped to his father and wrapped his arms around the neck and wept like a child. This particular scene had been repeated since the first defensive war of Helmdock. The only difference was back on the first war and the next, they had a beautiful woman waiting for them outside the barracks, more terrified and uneasy.

Keogh was scared of losing the only person left in his life―his father, his knight. His parents separated for the same reason that could only make Keogh cry like this: her mother could no longer stand the pain worrying too much while her husband was in the middle of something unsure of death or of breath. They gave birth to Keogh four years before the first war; his father was already one of King Miro's knights at that time. This profession that his father had to receive due to manpower inadequacy was of his mother's absolute disagreement. She could no longer hurt herself once again in heart attack in thinking negatively about each war's aftermath and, for worse, about herself being widowed, sustaining Keogh all alone. She thought it would be best if they would part ways. And she did after the second war. "You can find me in a safer place if you would finally decide to leave knighthood." These were her last words before leaving the walls of her hometown.

"Make Mama regret about leaving us alone, alright?" Keogh sobbed.

His father chuckled. "Never grudge against your good mother, Keogh. You shall be reconciling with her in time."

"That, I never foresee," Keogh pulled himself away from the embrace, looking at the armored face of his father. "Please come back to me alive, Papa. I want you to come home with this helmet still as shiny as how I polished it overnight."

His father said after a deep sigh, "I will."

The knight stood up with his young man. As Keogh handed the scabbard to his father, his closest comrade, Sir Grandt, called his attention to go. He removed his helmet once again, exposing a grownup version of his son's youthful, beautiful face. Then, he bent down to kiss the forehead of the boy before him, not to thank him as his squire but to show love for his only son that he might be seeing for the last time. An old necklace appeared from his father's fist. This slung around Keogh's neck. And the two knights in Keogh's sight left the wooden barracks after receiving two memorable taps on his fragile shoulder. Another tear fell from his eye as he caressed the rusts of the warhorse pendant.

Helmdock's troop of knights accumulated a few kilometers from the village, sighting a long black horizon of army clad in grey or black on a hill. When the overlord announced that they were an army of Diltan as he saw it from the gildings on their black armors and banners, very opposing their silver, the troop glanced at each other in tremor. Diltan was known for their mining industry, recording them with the most possession of gold. Aside from that, they wielded stronger arsenal affected by their affluence. Yet greed dominated their hearts; they were aspiring for more source of wealth to be the richest empire in Onil.

"But be not terrified," King Miro added from his stallion. "Show them how we triumphed from the first four battles!"

That stirred repetitive, long roars of valor to spring from the intimidated troop of less than a hundred, seemingly matching the opponents' number. As the Diltan army had descended from the hill and reached half a kilometer from them, a volley of ligneous arrows, some blazing and some poisoned, came soaring to the vermillion firmaments.

…

Unmoving, he was left on the glossy floor of the barracks with the other squires, packing up. These squires, he believed, did not have a father fighting on behalf of his family outside unlike his. But he was sure each of them was equally concern about his respective knight. The big difference was his knight was his own father, so the feeling was incomparable to any other squire around him. Keogh volunteered to be his father's assistant to study the profession as early as he could and to be the last face that his father should see before the war. Like his father, he sought to partake in the knighthood―an ambition that his mother never ambitioned of, that was why he chose to stay with his father when her mother left. The inspiring courage that his father had like any other knight was something he wanted to learn, if that was easily absorbable.

Keogh bore a grudge against his mother when she left. He never thought of seeing her face again, or would forever never be ready to. If he could, he would gouge out his eyes that he got from his mother just to leave her trace nowhere. She might have her reason but merely abandoning them was such heart-breaking for him. He could not find the intelligence from her mother's defenses or probably he was too young to understand this kind of things. Even his dream of following his father's trails was somewhat unsupported, something he hardly understood. But losing a mother was tragic in itself―one and only reason. One and only reason to break a son's heart. His father had tried convincing him to forgive and forget yet his fledgling mind appeared to think maturely on how to treat it.

"Keogh, are you alright?" Keogh's disconsolate daydreaming was disturbed by a dumpy squire, waving his hand to Keogh's taciturn face to catch his attention.

Keogh simpered back. He wished that gesture responded for him.

"We're leaving the barracks in a bit," the same squire added, "how about you, you staying?"

Keogh was too bothered to talk to people; afraid to speak, afraid to burst into tears. He didn't go back to the squire. No reply, no look in the eye. He just rose from crouching. The squire and the others frowned, conscious and shock as Keogh left the room with held tears hastily. As soon as he stepped past the threshold, an unfamiliar ear-splitting detonation blasted a few kilometers from where he stood stunned. Incomparable to a thunder's long, shattering explosion, it sounded more like a gargantuan war drum in the sky. From the distance, a massive cloud arose from the ground. No cloud from the blue skies but a cloud that he thought originated from something warfare. Everyone rushed out of their houses gaping, some were doubtfully murmuring, most of them began crying in terror. Even the foresters ran back to the village. They knew to themselves Helmdock never had that sort of artillery yet―that sort of thunderous blast. They knew to themselves that came from the challengers.

Keogh felt being tried to push out of the view by the squires like a statue. _What was that? Was it from the war? Well, most probably! _He was hearing the same thoughts from the young men around him. Tears he held as he walked out of the barracks started to give in―no longer tears of bitterness but frightful ones. His chest never felt this unsure tension before. And he couldn't find those arms to console like he was used to. He had no home to hide from the suspecting anguish or just a window to securely peek at this blast that no one had seen before.

He was all alone, shuddering. He never felt how doubting terror dried up tracks of his tears on his now cold face; he still wiped his cheeks.

"Back to your houses! Now!" an unarmored knight left to be one of the charges of the village bawled at the top of his lungs. His cohorts repeated his order across the place.

The villagers never contravened; straightaway, everyone, including the squires, got back to their homes and from their windows they peeped again at the new horrendous view in the mid-air. Helmdock's streets were cleared, only charges remained standing, whispering to each other. These men knew best about what was happening in the confrontation. Families of the knights from the war never stopped weeping in dread, hugging each other, and their tots clueless in their arms. The elderly were folding their hands to summon Balaccun's salvation. But for Keogh, he was all alone, never ceased thinking about his father that might be bleeding right this moment after hearing that destroying detonation which surely no one could avoid. He tried to solace himself; he was stroking his father's pendant. But he held on to his father's promise before he left―the promise that he always made before him and his mother every before a war, the inevitable promise up to the fourth.

And another one blasted. This time, completely deafening. The same massive cloud arose. This time, coming from the village's adobe front gates.

Helmdock panicked.

"TO THE CASTLE!" the charges howled. The castle could safeguard the denizens! Its bricks were made up of Uriq's hardest clay and frameworks of their very own wood. The charges just hoped these could protect their people.

Terror doubled in the hearts of the villagers. All of them left their houses, heading to the place that the charges were pointing. Some would trip to the ground in hysterical pace. Mothers were holding their wailing children as tight as they could. Others still got some of their properties but most never dared. Some stood, frozen at the sight of a nearby enormous cloud with the color of their hometown's earth, and then ran. Helmdock seemed to be on its downfall. Or yes, it really was on it. Something that no Helmdock dweller ever imagined.

Another one thundered. Not again. The same destructive sound but in a different spot of Helmdock: on one of the protruding walls of the castle. It appeared that they were steered to the wrong place. The people, including the helpless charges, burst out of the castle again, causing a stampede. A part of the castle began to collapse where solid debris also began to fall from overhead and onto some of them.

"The princess!" a charge yelled to his comrades around him and they made their way through the debris to rescue King Miro's betrothed who seemed to be trapped inside.

The beautiful Helmdock was now evanescent. Nowhere was safe now. No one was safe now. Everyone was running for their lives in different directions, overlooking more of the same explosions around the territory. Survival was everybody's pursuit. Several families parted ways as the huge debris were falling. Some didn't make it through the wreckages of the castle that was supposed to be their citadel. Helmdock was someplace unsafe.

Keogh already cried enough and he should be as strong as his father, especially in circumstances as such. He had evaded from the threats of the castle's debris and to the forest he went. His young eyes could no longer envision which was actually happening or which was too unforgiving to be true? He saw lifeless bodies, even of that dumpy squire and his parents. He saw a child abandoned by his breathless mother on the soil. He heard too much sorrowful screams and cries. He saw houses devoured by the successive detonations. He saw the brook where he used to play paper boats now soiled. He saw how the heart of his hometown was ruined. He saw enough of these devastations. Until he saw a breathing figure behind the thick cloud of dust, followed by more figures slowly approaching.

Sir Grandt! In pain he had to limp and he was covering something sore in the waist. And instead of his, he brought with him Keogh's father's unsheathed sword, and a helmet. Keogh knew his father's weaponry more than anyone else. He was his squire; he knew nearly all of each weapon's details, including the imprinted "Lucky Keogh" on the handle of the broadsword Sir Grandt had in his hand. What he didn't know entirely was the reason of bringing it home without its owner. Then behind him appeared more bleeding knights―maybe as less as fifteen were they―and fugitive warhorses in retreat; one by one they appeared. These knights tried to look for their families but no one was in sight, only heavy airborne dusts and debris keeping on falling. Which one could be Keogh's father among these fifteen expectant casualties?

_Papa, I'm over here, _he thought, anticipating. _Stop searching._

Keogh ran to his father's closest comrade instead. He could hopelessly find an answer from those survivors. As soon as Sir Grandt saw the child's approach, he groaned, "your father…."

Keogh was anxious for the answer that the knight before him provided even without him asking. He peeked with enquiring, unnerving eyes at Sir Grandt's, the left one bloodshot.

"Your father…Sir Harmond," Sir Grandt stuttered in pain. "He wanted you to… Ugh."

Keogh firstly assisted Sir Grandt to a tree trunk nearby for him to sit back and to speak a little easier. Keogh placed his head inches away from Sir Grandt as he settled himself down at ease to hear him better against the continuing explosions behind them. He stabbed the sword into the soft earth to reveal the "Lucky Keogh" levelling Keogh's eyes.

From a deep exhale came audible words of Sir Grandt. "Sir Harmond wanted you to find…your mother―"

"That is not my question!" Keogh interrupted the statement that he begged to dislike. "Where is Papa?"

Sir Grandt just bowed and sniffled. Understood. And Keogh cried along silently, taking time to sink in the reality that his father, this time, broke his promise. Sir Grandt, with his ripped undergarment's sleeve, wiped the dust off one side of the helmet he carried back then handed it to Keogh.

"Like what he promised," Sir Grandt said with a smile. "Forgive me; I soiled it…all over again on my way here."

Keogh received the helmet that was actually his father's. At least, partly, the promise was fulfilled. That made Keogh smile then sniffled, wiping the helmet more with his bare hand.

"He wanted you…to seek for your mother," Sir Grandt started again, holding back his tears. "And take…your father's weapon for your protection."

Keogh's world stood still. He could not really envision which was actually happening or which was too unforgiving to be true. Right this moment, he wanted to think this was not truly happening for it was too unforgiving to be true. He drew himself away from the knight.

"Your mother…must still be across from here till now," Sir Grandt said. "In Jad Hen. That was what…Sir Harmond told me."

But Keogh never liked the idea. He would not want to see her mother's face again, not even a single strand of her hair. He himself had almost cursed that to the moon!

"That I will not do, Sir Grandt!" Keogh obstinately contravened, in tears once again. "Never!"

"Listen, Keogh," Sir Grandt responded in a pacific tone. "Helmdock will never…be Helmdock after this doomsday…or might be tonight. Every little thing…is gone and I am certain…that my wife…too. But you, Keogh…you still have…one more life to devote with someone closest to your heart. You're young and able and bold as your father. You've already…learned sufficient about life. And you still have…a mother to love and to hold. So, you must…leave this place. As soon as you can… N-now. Seek for your mother…and begin another life, a better one than this. All of this I say in…behalf of your late father…who never sacrificed…in vain. Now, go…."

Then, one dissimilar explosion blasted, the largest one Keogh had heard that his ears rang. It concealed the whole vicinity of his beloved Helmdock with dusts as thick as the brown cloud that stunned everyone a few minutes ago. Then, fire. This drove the young man to run away in fear, clasping his father's dirtied sword and embracing the helmet with the other hand against his chest. Farther and faster he went, deserting his life once so beautiful and would be mere ruins of history henceforth.

_Farewell, Helmdock. Farewell, Papa_.

But never spilled across his adamant mind the thought of heading to that place where her begrudged mother might be. Never.


	2. Chapter 1

One

Over the Horizon

"_It seems to be speaking to me."_

Auburn, like everyday but this twilight looked and felt different. Same as the sea breeze―to him, was very suspecting though as pacific as any ordinary day from his past three years. The sun had something else on the tip of its tongue but he could not hear or could not stand listening to. Perhaps the breeze coaxed the sun to voice nothing. That he never understood or never tried at least to learn how to communicate with nature. That was some witchy thing or hallowed talent only for Balaccun. However, it was just a gut feeling or profound yearning that his mind was being disheveled like frayed fishing nets at his foot.

It was a settlement on wharves where its dwellers had to fish every day of their lives to survive, and only to survive; they knew nothing or cared less about livelihood. Civilization was something they never wished or uninspired from societies some of them had been with, accordingly depriving them of surnames. One of their homegrown philosophies identified that intruders were most attracted to civilized territories, thus, keeping a stranglehold of their traditions. Granted, the whole community was soaked in direct heat, but their skin was not too dark as withered; maybe tan or lighter. Their hair, jet black, long, and coarse. And they―most of them―naturally got the sultry scent of the sea or maybe because of getting used to the odor. Nonetheless, they were content people of worth one's respect.

Lyrrio was how this fishing colony was called, six years younger than that forested hamlet modernized into an earning village that was presently conquests of the Diltan army. As remote as the mentioned hamlet it had been, Lyrrio could only be explored if you could voyage. It was settled in an islet formed by a once active seagirt volcano. Besides the legendary volcano, here tranquilly lay a handful of rock-strewn, uninhabitable knolls and then Lyrrio itself. By acclamation, chieftains were taken from a traditional, month-long contest of endurance partaken by adult men. They had shanties as their homes, clattering around of their desired location, made from a patchwork of tin and cardboard. Nurtured mangroves were a common sight around alongside tattered fishnets and oars. And this good hamlet was where Keogh spent his four years after his escape from the attacked kingdom aforementioned.

Somehow, he was identically Sir Harmond―the yellow hair, the fine nose, and the stance that anybody could foresee from a son of a chivalrous man. But the eyes that Lyrrians adored because of the very oceanic color were from her mother. His complexion that was innately fair as his mother's was now as dark as the men of the hamlet. He was now one grownup man in his early twenties. Sir Grandt, on his deathbed of Helmdock grass, had mentioned his boldness that was inbred after his father and that he already learned enough about life and living. Keogh had resuscitated these to life.

It took him roughly eighty days before he found the new life that Sir Grandt never meant but nonetheless found one in Lyrrio. But before he sailed his way to his "new life", the young squire back then was shadowed by Diltan men when he landed on a desolate prairie from where he could view Helmdock as the size of his toy castle. He didn't have any idea where he was from his tragic run. "Lucky Keogh" indeed, for that night as he was sleeping by a weak bonfire, two thickset Diltan men sprang from the dark, and he got something to fight back with and a number of combat moves he observed from his father's drill. That night initiated the new episode of his life as a fighter, no longer some warrior assistant. He had no knight to assist, anyway. He never carried the weight of a sword in his whole life aside from the nightfall he would smooth it; he managed applying what he spied from the drills to the Diltan hulks. From that encounter and few gashes he received from those genuinely trained fighters, he learned a lot.

He could no longer stay, so he began his lone journey. Yet, somebody remained stalking; he could feel it everyplace he would go. Rustling scrubs, every so often an unaware shadow in the corner of his eye, and careful footsteps behind him that he without a doubt knew were not his. Signs of absolute stalker. He would be waking up in the middle of his nap from feeling some breathing against his face. He would feel being watched behind the foliage when he would bathe in a lake, so he uneasily bathed. He tried confronting it but he was only speaking to himself. Still, he never cared much about the stalker because the stalker seemed to care less of harming him, anyway. It never impeded his journey.

Onil was nearly as vast as three million square miles but Lyrrio was isolated from the very continent. Rousing him to dream of ruling his own village, Keogh travelled through the wilds: fertile savannahs, serene riverbanks, accessible plateaus, and other potential expanses. A few derelict settlements were along his way, too, reminding him of his hometown and where he would spend most of his nights. Big living communities might admit him but he stayed never more than a night or two. From those times he realized he was rather a wanderer―one who constantly had this significant silver stuff around on his either hand that merchants would argue to barter them. Now, he already made a sheath out of lumber for his father's sword. On his drifting, he would meet people with the same way of life; most of them were deceitful thieves. Keogh contentedly breathed like this for eighty days till he noticed from up a precipice while watching blankly the perpetual shrinking auburn horizon this interesting small island separated from the coast beneath him. Overnight he feverishly assembled a raft to convey himself to the islet, unlike before when he only used to folding her mother's papers for boats.

It took him two and a half days to reach the territory and dock his waning raft. To Balaccun he was grateful for the clement waves. He knew he would be paddling then losing his arms and mind in fatigue for more than five days if he paddled not the hard way he did. He finally heard no stalking signs but the sense of being observed from a distance lingered; much less he cared. Lyrrio improved zero from that blistering noon he first landed his sandals sopping wet onto the first wharf. He was expecting and ready for malicious pointing harpoons and daggers like any intruder deserved but curious gazes greeted him instead. That made him realize he could rather bear facing a hundred native spears than a few―even just a few―paralyzing stares from these sea-dwellers. He couldn't decipher what they had in mind. It would be better to be terrified than to stand before them like that. He never felt as strange as their "hospitability" in any living community he had visited. Women were steady at their doorsteps, carrying their unclothed toddlers of much lighter complexions. Most of them had either breast bared from being disturbed by the outsider while breastfeeding―an apparently accustomed appearance of their women. Bigger children on their naked feet were grasping their mothers' mottled garments fastened at their shoulders and some hiding behind them, sucking their filthy thumbs. Now, where were their men? Shortly, he wanted to leave, regretful of his eagerness to see the colony which appeared to be someplace for purveyors of wealth from the deep. But on the thought of spending days strenuously paddling trapped his feet. He stayed.

Silence. Only the gulls, whispering waves, and oceanic gusts.

Keogh gaited. Two cautious steps. He could still feel the sea underneath the bobbing piece of heavy wood that slackened his walk. Then, as soon as a child's shrill cry broke all the silence, Keogh felt a dull blade against his neck that he was too late to clear his throat in unexpected terror. The women, with their children, faced back to their shanties and to their chores. They never seemed to care.

"Get back to your raft," a youthful masculine breathed over Keogh's right shoulder, "immediately."

"Very likely," Keogh uttered a response to the voice with a confidence that he tried to match but the blade precluded, "if you first draw your weapon away."

Keogh won that easy. What an easy talk with an armed stranger! Before hunkering down to the edge of the wharf, he studied the man who caught him―lean and tall; with his bulging, compact muscles along his arms, torso, and legs, Keogh could not accurately tell his age but was certain he was of his same age. As an eagle's, his eyes locked at Keogh's as he was gently swiveling his dull blade that looked like a scythe. Behind him were boats containing bountiful fishes sparkling under the sun, the whole hamlet's supper. More men, adult and stronger ones, settled down in the dinghies. Some of them were cackling, revealing yellowy teeth as their eyes against the darkness of their complexion―the menfolk had the darkest complexion, something they attained from fishing in the scorching sun. Prudently, Keogh started to look for his balance on the raft but what he found were the pieces of lumber unraveling. To the water he sank with the raft, very slowly. Before he completely fell, he promptly hurled the helmet onto the dry surface. Louder cackles echoed.

"Quit it, folks!" a stern, controlling voice spoke up from the distance.

The laughter was interrupted. The strong voice came all the way from the biggest shanty at the farthest end of the hamlet. Its draped entryway in threadbare textile was drawn open by a tall man. He wore the same only clothing like the other men―trousers of canvas-like fabric artlessly cut into shorts. The menfolk wore no top or they preferred to be shirtless to cope with their dwelling's location under the sun. Excepting the chieftain, he had a string of the rarest seashells and aquatic rocks round his sturdy neck.

The man looked like the chieftain. With a body build and voice tone as intimidating as his, he was positively the chieftain. And he had the weighty necklace, pattering on his chest in rhythm of his prideful stride. As he approached Keogh and the boats, the men started to rise and left the area with their nets, oars, harpoons, and their shimmering scaly supper. Everyone went outdoors now, some observing their chieftain, Keogh, and the boy with the scythe. Before having a word, he was stunned at the sight of the helmet at his foot.

"Help him back to the wharf," the chieftain commanded the young man.

Reluctantly, the boy with the scythe reached out for Keogh and the latter instantly gave his hand. When they finally held hands, Keogh pulled the boy forcefully into the water with a wide splash, wetting the bossy brawny man standing. The men's laughter resounded again from the chieftain's back. Keogh smirked at the drenched boy then got on the wharf by himself, stunning the chieftain further when he saw the sword in the stranger's strapped sheath. But he never said a thing about it until the night came.

As soon as the horizons shut dark, they kindled a bonfire in the middle of the floating hamlet, enough to light the bottommost corners. They had given Keogh a warm welcome―the hospitable one, finally―with a long table of grilled and seasoned raw fish of different species that only the seas of Onil had. Also, pots and pots of indefinably delicious stews, still made of fish. Keogh thought, _they eat these things for everyday?_ Everyone turned out to be sincerely pleasant. The ladies were asking for forgiveness if they looked inhospitable before the men got into the scene. Likewise for the men, feeling sorry for the chieftain's son's initial action which they clarified was of precautionary purposes, something that Keogh understood. Keogh's eyes fascinated them, especially the young girls, and were considered reputed gifts from the seas. The early part of the night was an occasion he sought for years; he missed stuffing himself. And when the evening was ending, the men and a few women mostly their wives gathered round the waning bonfire for the chieftain himself was about to state something about their guest. Keogh sat adjacent to the son of the chieftain who was on the other side.

"I know of your lost home, kid," Fragan, the lenient chieftain, started.

Though a bit amazed, to talk about it was of Keogh's disinterest but he had to favorably listen to show Helmdock-born cordiality that Fragan's people seemed to lack. Everyone listened as their sight shifted from the flames to each other's eyes gleaming.

"I've seen something identifying on your helmet this afternoon," Fragan continued, "and got even more convinced through the help of your sword. Its hilt has the emblem of the order to which it belonged."

The folks took a look at the two mentioned things Keogh placed beside him. They noticed; he could not leave a place without those, he ate his fishes beside those, until now. Something might be so special. Qiba, the chieftain's son, snatched the helmet and examined. As if he truthfully cared.

"You came all the way from the far east. I should not be mistaken," revealed the chieftain with a very ensuring tone.

Keogh never nodded but curved his lips to a slight smile to affirm. He was being dumbfounded by Fragan who was as if a telepathic behind his soothsaying tongues of fire.

Fragan got Keogh's smile and resumed, "Helmdock, am I correct?"

It appeared like a tête-á-tête between the chilly moonlight and steaming flame. Nobody understood except from the two of them and only them. And hearing the dead place's name from another person paralyzed him. It was like it echoed against the darkness repeatedly till it rang in his ears then bled. He never let his mind to reminisce as Qiba rudely yawned right to his ear in boredom and tiredness from fishing.

"Am I correct, kid?"

Keogh looked through Fragan's eyes with a cold face and answered with a beam, "yes, Sir. You can't be correct anymore. But how did you know about my hometown?"

"I, with my father, met a man with wounds still fresh from a struggle. He was making his way through the mountain pass over the coast where you primed the ride on your raft."

Keogh lent his ears more carefully. The people now attended too although some of them already knew of this or witnessed themselves. They loved it when their chieftain would tell past experiences and folklores till the tots would fall asleep on their mother's shoulders as well as the rest of the children. His deep voice was a lullaby to their little ears.

"He was all alone, walking the dusty path," Fragan began his lullaby. "He was in ache, in starve, in tire! Before he collapsed toward the rocks, my father had caught him. We brought him here till he woke up the next morning and introduced himself, where he came from, and all. He left after six days, perpetually gratifying. If he did not leave, he might have been Lyrrio's chief, not I, for he was a man of greater strength, wisdom, courage, and audacity. Hence, he, for sure, could win the contest. And yes, he was one of the knights of your hometown that is now under Diltan army."

Keogh had the cold face again with eyes sharp at the chieftain who just finished his short "lullaby". The wives started to leave one by one with cherubs asleep on their shoulders as the bonfire was burning weaker but still lighting the circle.

"Where did he go?" Keogh snappishly questioned.

"That, he didn't answer," replied Fragan. "But westward he went."

Keogh refrained from interrogating moreover, ending the talk that night and the night itself for the Lyrrians. But that night was not the last for Keogh; he was persuaded to rather stay until his third year.

…

"The horizon. It seems to be speaking to me," Keogh guessed.

He was on a windy precipice of one of the hills of the island. With him was Qiba. The latter grew up to be his father's personification―brawny, tall, and braver. Even the prideful walk and voice. But to finally wear the authoritative necklace, as what he always dreamt of, was too soon for him. Nevertheless, he was self-assured nothing could impede his dream, not even Keogh and the fact that the throne was not heritable. He knew he still had more scales and fishbone in store to swallow to be inducted; Fragan was ageing but not over the hill yet. To while away the days that seemed to be a million more, he trained Keogh in sword fighting and other combatting skills that the latter certainly must, though he had learned from his father way back then. Lyrrio barely experienced invasions and huge, hazardous encounters but they were no ignorant about weapon wielding; their harpoons were specially prepared. Keogh had finally found the real worth of the broadsword that as far as he could remember was last used on a mad forest wolf. And he could ultimately manage to bear the weight. That was why they were up on the hill. The overwhelming, overlapping current of the wind up there could be of great help for leg and stance stability. Almost every midafternoon they climbed so they, or only Keogh, saw how the horizon differed today.

"Trust me, Keogh," Qiba started commenting on Keogh's bizarre, mystic discovery that he almost laughed. "No man on Onil's lands has ever heard the horizon speaking!"

Keogh hissed and said, "That is not what I try to say! Only a witch can show that. I know that."

Keogh could hardly expound what he was strangely feeling about the burning horizon or the whistling winds or the rolling sea. This feeling was unconsciously not new to him but it was just construed in a very dissimilar manner that he could never understand. It was like feeling some forgotten sensation. Very, very unexplainable! Or was the horizon trying to voice words through itself as an endless auburn line and a significant decipherer? The feeling might be decoded by the view of the setting sun and the vermillion clouds, like an old painting with an ambiguous connotation, perhaps. Keogh could not remove his eyes from the redness of the skies. So fathomless. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His scrutiny was interfered.

"Let's go home," Qiba suggested.

He responded none. He stood up on his reflexes. From the earth, he pulled the hilt of the sword where he tied the necklace that Sir Harmond gave. The warhorse pendant was discolored over time. And started following the long, rocky footpath down to their boats. Qiba was all the way behind Keogh who began to contemplate again. And worse came when they were seeing the horizon nearer as they paddled to the wharves, Keogh was out of his mind. Qiba respected the moment, he remained shut for his friend.

For three years and counting, Keogh had acclimatized into the Lyrrian way of life. He fished with the menfolk daily, built muscles from everyday rowing, readily ate fish three times a day, bathed in brackish seawater, tanned himself in the sun, wore canvas, and smelled like everybody. These three years had his past memories being drifted by the water into oblivion and thus molded him to be a stronger man in mind and body. Once more and probably way better, he felt being in a family amongst the Lyrrians―Qiba as a brother and Fragan a father. And he was evermore grateful for Balaccun of that.

Daybreak had flickered; the horizon looked as ordinary as the last sunset―indigo, and the rays of the peeping sun igniting the bordering areas; the rest, playing shades of navy or cobalt to evening ebony. The morning zephyr as cold as ever. But Keogh was still disturbed; he did not sleep a wink. But he never considered blaming the stalker that he could still sense even above the wharves of Lyrrio; it was rather a stalking mental struggle. Nonetheless, at least, he could name the surface of the void progressively―the yearning to revive his nomadic days. And he was yet to explore the depth of the void to perceive the inmost, the very reason of finding things differently.

After the first fishing at the early sunrise, the women were setting the dining boards and men broiling gifts of the sea for breakfast. The whole Lyrrio was interrupted when a short sorrowful cry and deep sobs, coming from one of the small shanties. A mother finally concluded her life with age. The women began to sniffle, empathizing with the daughter, in the arms of their men. Keogh felt a sudden, sharp pain in the chest. He was gaping, eyes stuck, and transfixed to the sensation―something he never felt so tenderly.

_This can't be_, Keogh thought in disbelief.

He never saw the tear coming when he heard everyone grieving over the mother's death, when he saw the kneeling daughter before her bedridden, breathless mother. He never saw a dramatic scene as poignant. He had never experienced his world stopped spinning after Sir Grandt's confession of his father's demise. Not until today. He hustled from the compressed crowd towards the first wharf where the boats were tied up and where he stood still with head stooped down to the water, seeing a sad reflection. He could not reverse the feeling anymore, the seething guilt that he wanted to settle now.

He wanted to murmur the name―her name, or what he used to call her―but he was choked in sudden misery.

At last, he was no more a victim of his own contemplations and he suddenly craved to leave the "home" he thought had been. The horizon at twilight that stole his sanity took the culprit out from him for an important task that he might have forgotten, that he should not let the last blink of daylight wane without accomplishing. And the burning color completely dampened him down. Sun setting connoted something to end. And endings were always out of favor.

His heart once a stone for his mother tempered. Begrudged mindset no longer tickled the core. Memories that he assumed were now part of the incessant sea haunted once again, back to the surface―Helmdock, Sir Harmond, and his mother. It was about time to see her again. To be in her consoling embrace once again. To be a son once again.

"Is it the horizon again?" a familiar voice butted in, startling Keogh. It was Qiba.

Keogh gasped and smiled back to his foster brother with eyes holding the sadness.

"The horizon no more, Qiba," he said under his breath. "I have fathomed everything. I have heard the horizon spoke audibly through my ears."

Qiba never got it he hooted.

"Sounded like a good laugh, wasn't it?" agreed Keogh with a bright tone. "Truly, it was a droll discovery for me."

Qiba creased his forehead in total misinterpretation. He knew Keogh meant beyond the joke.

"I'm afraid I do not comprehend," he confessed.

"You need not to. Things are rather doomed to be profound and self-explanatory. Things are rather doomed to be valued when misplaced."

An axiom from Keogh? He started to sound strange for Qiba; still, the latter attempted to crack what the other just stated. And he failed. He tried no more and instead, stared emptily at the distance with Keogh, overlooking the horizon with another message but very palpable equally for the both of them and the whole hamlet―a rain was on its way.

As final hints of weakened daylight being swallowed by the night skies, the rain as expected came. The horizon could really tell a lot of truths. Balaccun had finally bestowed Onil this shower after months. Moderate yet nonstop. Some people would find it as grace after a long time of sheer sunlight and they would be dancing in it like in the devastated Helmdock. Keogh would remind him of that―he as a kid and his mother in the rain, laughing, playing, happy. Things reminded Keogh of everything as he stayed in Lyrrio; he could not hide that from himself but he was struggling all the time just to be insensible. Besides the rain, the Lyrrian complete families, eating fish or any at the same table, and Fragan as a protective adoptive father. But, time had already made him a master of that―masking real homesickness. And as the moon above could be barely seen behind the dense clouds, Keogh was completing his scheme that would take him to the new life that Sir Grandt wanted him to seek. He was now eager to grant that. This enthusiasm that he was feeling was comparable to the eagerness when he first sighted Lyrrio that ultimately became his impermanent home. But tonight, he would be walking his way to his true home.

True, Keogh was indebted like forever to Fragan, Qiba, and the entire fishing colony for three years of too much humanity. Truer, Lyrrio built the man that he must be, that he accordingly became. Truest, one of his schemes had to be leaving the hamlet without Fragan's blessing.

He wanted nobody to obstruct the thirst over what the auburn horizon had conveyed; he had not sated that thirst for years. Fragan might stop him, concerning the danger―be it in the wild or from Onil denizens themselves―waiting on the plains. Or the children that he treated as his sons or younger brethren could decline his heart. So he was unwavering in leaving with nobody having an inkling of it. Tragic for Keogh, indeed.

The thrash of the rolling waves onto the far coast was clear, still strong to the hearing behind the clattering rain that looked aggravating into the night. But nothing could stop Keogh's escape, no fortuitous event. The wharves were swayed as wild as the waves but it appeared to be a rocking cradle for the Lyrrians; they were sound asleep. Now, that was a good cue for Keogh.

He brought with him nothing else besides his sword and the canvas shorts he wore yesterday. When he felt best, he sneaked out of his shanty where he purposely left the helmet then into the rain. It dribbled to his yellow hair tied up at his back and shoulders down to his bare, grubby feet as he fastened his scabbard round his waist. He took a peek into the biggest shanty to find two sleeping men who looked alike and to whom he was much obliged. Well, he wished they were truthfully in peace. Then he proceeded until the last wharf he would feel under his feet and to where the boats were collectively tied up. Neither moonlight nor a big bonfire was to expose his escape. The rain was indeed a Balaccun-sent blessing. He made it across the hamlet slickly though almost slid to the slippery, shaky wood. Into the nearest vacant boat he prudently hopped. He cut the rope with a trembling sword and off he went. He glanced back to have one final look but a still, indistinctive figure on the last wharf met his eye. It looked like a caped, hooded figure from the distance. Who was that? Who ever wore a cape around Lyrrio? If that was a Lyrrian, why didn't it stop him? Whoever that was, Keogh should resume before a true Lyrrian might be seeing him. This very moment reminded him of his tragic escape from Helmdock. Now, he was leaving another place he used to call "home".

His arms were contracted and worn by the overpowering freezing winds, making his paddling hard. He was now several feet away from Lyrrio's vicinity but not yet halving the waters between the shoreline and the hamlet. The rain was as if Keogh's feelings as he was rowing―heavy, intricate, yet eager. Just as these feelings had struggled him, so with his oar. The rain was readable way before it landed the earth, however, to be this strong―yet weaker than a storm―was not foreseen. A blessing no more for Keogh. He never risked to boat against angry waves before. Fragan would let no Lyrrian to leave the wharves in weather like this because a small old boat could possibly bear gusts as frantic. The waves remained dancing madly. He had no more control of anything. What a tyranny for the seas to be!

_O Balaccun, have mercy_, he prayed continually, trying to keep his dinghy steady on the surface.

But no god seemed to hear him. The boat was driven to the area where jagged rocks were jutting out. Then, a wave strongest of all tossed his boat upside-down. To the water Keogh was flung, hitting a rock by the head. And farther down the seemingly boundless depth of the blurry water he sank, unconscious. Unlucky Keogh.

**Pronunciation Guide**

The following names of characters, places, etc. are enumerated sequentially according to when they were mentioned.

**Prologue & Chapter 1**

Onil- oh'neel

Balaccun-ba'lak'koon

Egran- eg'rǝn

Helmdock- helm'dok

Mirodas- mee'roh'dǝs

Miro- mee'roh

Keogh- kjoh

Grandt- grænt

Diltan- dil'tǝn

Harmond- har'mǝnd

Uriq- yoo'reek

Jad Hen- dʒad hɅn

Lyrrio/Lyrrian- leer'rjoh/rjǝn

Fragan- fra'gan

Qiba- t∫ee'ba


	3. Chapter 2

Two

Arising Gravity

"_Have you already identified from the map which one?"_

It had been one serious rain that it still drizzled in the morning. Balaccun might have sent the wrong grace last night to the earthly surface. But he was setting out the sun inch by inch from the flickering horizon. Then, for what was the rain last night? It was appearing to be a lark coming from the throne wherever Balaccun was. Poor Onil.

And poorer Lyrrio. The hamlet's tin houses were almost shattered. Most of the mangroves were uprooted and blown to the roofs now ajar; the women tried planting them again to the earth underwater. A few wharves were displaced which, first thing in the morning, had fixed by the menfolk. Lyrrians tried to restore their home. They never foresaw this disaster but for them was just one of the mildest ones. It would take time to clean the remains of the heavy rain. As far as an adult Lyrrian could remember, the biggest remains of a hostile typhoon they managed to settle lasted for almost a month. For the meantime, Qiba was now about to leave for the first hunt of the day, for breakfast. But they were delayed a bit; someone seemed to enjoy the weather last night in bed; Keogh was not stepping out of his shanty yet.

"I think he's still dreaming underneath his thickest bedspread!" someone pulled a joke.

The rest guffawed. But Qiba had a bad feeling about it. It was not his foster brother's nature, or was certainly not until now. He could not delay any more minute for the sun was already rising and everyone had not eaten a scale yet. The coldness of last night could starve them badly until today. He darted to Keogh's, drew the drapery of its entryway, and saw Keogh―Keogh's spotless cot with its bedspread unused. Just his cot. No soul in it. He explored his eyes over the small space of the house, just to find the helmet under the cot that he knew Keogh significantly valued. Qiba was getting anxious. He picked the helmet from the floor and moved to their shanty with angst so clear to his actions.

"You will not believe this, Father," broadcast Qiba as soon as he stepped into their house with much bigger space.

At the sight of the helmet and with Qiba's alarming tone, Fragan already got it.

…

Not a single finger. No muscle was of his minimal control. His limbs felt like tied up skintight. Thick cloths were stacked over his torso, it seemed. And the head, aching with every inch of his body; as if his hair he grew over time in Lyrrio was being pulled by some mad woman. But beneath the sore body that he assumed was already a cold carcass was a shingly sensation against his bare skin. The earthy warmth, it was recognizable. He was in sand. Then, sharp pain pressed by some damp cloth. He just found out a wound just below his hairline. He could feel it and its deepness as the cloth kissed it. But who was pressing and seemingly healing it? Unfortunately, as he attempted, his eyes could not reveal any light. Or was it evening already? Not at all, stars should be overhead. Or was he already blind and could only see blackness? None was right. Thank Balaccun. He could still feel the lids just hindering the view. And he could sense the heat on it from the sun. Then, the waves. He surely perceived slight waves creeping to and fro, murmuring to his ears, tickling his frozen toes. And as sure, he concluded he was on a shoreline. The lapping waves and the sandy feeling bared it in his realization. How many days had already past? He was certain he was lying there for days, numb; he hardly cleared his parched throat; he had never felt as clammy as how he was feeling right now. And the hunger, so grave. Then, the rounded cloth pressed again. O the pain!

His senses awakened when he remembered a thing. His skin was as if anesthetized for a while to focus onto this. The other one aside from being swallowed alive by the insane waters. "Lucky Keogh"; he was still alive.

_Mama!_

His legs suddenly budged, rubbing the sand. He was no longer troubled or hesitant in mentioning the name he once loathed, even just across the mind. Then, the pain from his skull stung, sending reflexes through his right arm to reach it. And before he reached it, footsteps from where he was rested hurried away. He finally disclosed his eyes then followed the direction where he heard the escaping footfalls. Too late. What he only found were footprints in the sand, leading to the back of a large rock. How quick of it! Much as he wanted to chase it, his upper back still felt too fragile for a mere stand. Much as he wanted to call it back, his throat was too parched. Affirmative, he was on a short beach―an unfamiliar, milky beach. Behind him was a big beige stack. He could no longer see Lyrrio over the horizon, not even his boat.

He lifted his body, removing the pile of imaginary cloths, from the strength of his elbows and shifted the weight to a hand, pushed himself upward against the earth, till he could finally sit on his butt. He had a hard time carrying himself. He hardly glanced to the other side of the shore; he had not seen his sword yet. He breathed in relief when he found it beside the bloodstained damp cloth. Still sheathed and even the pendant was still attached. What an honest stranger! Did it ever realize the worth of the blade if bartered? After the sword, he picked the cloth, tied it around his forehead to hide the wound. Then, he attempted to stand. He could but then, he caught himself as he was about to lose balance; he grasped the surface of the stack, catching his breath. Never had been as frail as this that he saddened himself. He should overrule this weakness. So, he tried to walk. Of course, he could move but very, very slowly, still needing the hold on the stack.

Gratitude. He was so keen of telling that to whoever dragged him from the sea and took care of him for days. He owed to it his life. He had tracked its footprints but it discontinued before an underdeveloped tree behind the rock he sought support. It had fled already, climbed the tree, most probably, then onto the scalable stack. Now, how could he convey his hearty gratefulness? It was a horizontally stretched shoreline and it was very proximate to the seawater. And it looked empty out there no life could ever survive. So, he clambered the same tree with strength enough to do it. He could smell some panorama of life behind the beach and was hopeful to meet the Samaritan on the rock. Then, as soon as he got to the last bough that nearly broke, off he hopped onto the stack until he had himself onto it. The free wind, it almost blew him back down. And no sign of a living being.

Ahead of him was a plateau―no trees yet wild grass and shrubs and where rare avian creatures flourished. More of them overhead. Across the plateau was a mountain. His dream of erecting a community haunted again over this piece of land. But, firstly, he had to realize the dream that nearly devoured by the violent waters with the dreamer himself. Through the current of the wind, he ran down to the loam, driving the creatures fluttering to the air, then towards the flowery mountain that didn't look too steep. Climbable, luckily. The panorama of life was yet to be found, not on the plateau.

He could feel his body recovering when he was mounting. As quick as that―as resilient as any knight he knew. The pain from his skull was as if still being cured by the piece of cloth; he barely felt the aching. His muscles were stiff and sturdy once again. He could pull his weight by a hand as he reached for another foothold. He never had scaled a mountain before but he knew what he was doing. Some footfalls could be deceitfully able yet higher and higher he ascended, smelling the aroma of the scattered flowering seedlings on the rocks. Ah, it was springtide!

Surely, he sighted a panorama of life, as he foresaw with his gut feeling. He was now on the summit where more blossoms grew in bundles. The winds blew stronger that the cloth against his wound dried up so fast. Then behold what lay beneath him―roofs of a living community, facing the rest of a defile. The chance of life―he could see it now besides smelling it out of his mere gut feeling. No more barren shoreline or a boring beige stack but trees and everlasting grass affluent through the valley beneath. Besides, newly bloomed white lilies and arrowleaf balsamroots and geraniums, welcoming the springtide. The living community―someplace he could ask for directions to another where her mother might be; he could scarcely remember the place coming from Sir Grandt's trembling mouth. Or this was perchance the population which the Samaritan belonged. To descend to the dwelling was his unwavering will but the mountain where he stood was too steep from the lowness of life. He had to climb down. Again. Then, out of the blue, he heard a slimy sound from a distance.

He was sure it also came from the same mountain, maybe on the other side. It sounded akin to noisily sucking thick watery substance whatsoever. Very clear to the ears. And ghastly that Keogh's hairs rose. Then, intermittent womanly muffled moans replaced. His hairs rose harder, could not describe the sensation, whether be of disgust or of something erotic he never sensed before. The moans, they rather seemed hurt―she seemed hurt. Out of curiosity, he sought where the noise came from. The slimy sounds resumed whereas the moans quieted. He knelt onto the bed of blooms and peeked over the other side of the height, back down to the plateau, to see an unearthly scene resembling and elucidating its sickening sounds. He never sighted this one on his way to the mountain―a scene his eyes could not stomach.

Camouflaged by the grass' greenness, a life-sized scarlet flower was expectorating a human body. To the best of his knowledge, he was sure it was a human body! The plant was a rosebud but tremendously not as tiny, very unlike the one Sir Harmond used to give his mother in bunch every after the drill. It had no stem but thorny fronds beneath, enigmatically erecting directly on the loam. It was emitting fluids―as thick and heavy as beast meat and redder than its sleek petals as wide as Keogh's sideways stretch. The petals were so shut but as if chewing; the plant was breathing! Along with the gunges were pale legs of the human body. With legs so thin, he was concluding those belonged to a woman. And they were gently trying to get out of the plant that seemed to be swallowing her. Keogh's eyes enlarged in fright. He was about to pull his sword to salvage the woman down below but the moans were perceived again. It impeded Keogh. No, she was not in pain. The moans sounded more like she was being gratified by no fathomable means. If she was hurt, then she should be writhing madly and yelping instead.

The bud stooped down like wearied. And the petals gently unfolded, revealing the beauty of a rose so huge. And the rest of the human body was slipped to the grass. Viscous fluids, thicker and thicker, were puked till the whole plant wilted. It appeared to be the human as the plant's nutrition. Indeed, as puked, an unharmed woman, bare but clothed in the blood-red emissions of the plant where she had been. And her hair, as yellow as Keogh's, was similarly coated with the gunge. Then, she slowly opened her crimson eyes to the light. Such a beautiful lady from a rose. Such beauty from Keogh's peephole; femme fatale in his eyes.

The voluptuous woman started removing the gunges off her velvety pale skin when she got on her feet. Unhurriedly, she did with movements very lithe and erotic until Keogh doubted whether she was aware of his peek. Or were her acts naturally seducing? She was as if dancing.

Both of them were startled by an echoing attack of arrow from nowhere. It struck the lifeless oversize plant. Before the woman fled down the plateau, she left Keogh with a very suggestive look. Spot-on, she knew she was being watched! And she knew she was the supposed target of the arrow. Keogh couldn't sense himself for a while with eyes locked, feeling like he wanted more of that sort of glimpse. Then, a fierce roar resonated, frightening the feathered creatures they took flight. Even Keogh was alarmed and now awake; still peeking over the mountain. The creatures flew again when heavy thuds landed the grass. A furry canine beast, thrice as big as Onil's common wild wolf. On its grey back was a young leggy, slender brunette with a face that Keogh could not see from atop. She wore a quiver of arrows crafted from branches―very identical to the arrow that struck the plant―and a camouflaging russet tunic, belted, and long enough to reach her knees. Then, a ligneous, varnished bow slung around her torso. As soon as she leaped off her tamed beast, it pounced to the blackening rose and violently tore it apart with its strong, bloodthirsty teeth. Keogh could not agree anymore how vigorous and menacing the creature could be.

"Enough," the girl commanded. Her voice was cold and firm. "It can poison you."

The beast discontinued and turned back to its master. It looked like it ate another animal with bloodred fluids dripping from its angry muzzle. Then, it sniffed hardly as if locating something strange and of danger. It looked to where Keogh was, snarling. Sooner than the girl showing her face to where her animal was glowering, Keogh, caught off-guard, pulled himself back. And before the beast would reach the mountaintop with a single spring or be effortlessly shot by the girl in the eye, he unthinkingly slid down to the other side of the mountain. To where the hamlet was.

Jagged rocks cut his bare skin as he fell over the steepness. His body was also bashed hard by projecting layers of the mountain. He thought this was all right than the sure death he could find from the two. Unsheathing his sword, it plummeted faster than he did. From the mid-air, he was seeing to where he was plunging to―a big wooden cart with heaps of fodder. Behold "Lucky Keogh".

The hamlet was simple. It was housing just about ten families in timber bungalows with a dusty ancestral rocking chair on small porches. Dilapidated pales walled the vicinity. Comparable to Lyrrio was their standard of living―humbly overlooking sophistication. It looked like it never had been touched by conflicts and improvement. And even starvation; they bred fowls and other stock. They scattered around the terrain, grazing. Such a place of husbandry. A deep well was also at hand at the center of it all. Behold one community very reminiscent of Lyrrio.

He was in the air for several seconds over the cart. The fodder gave Keogh a good catch he even bounced but the cart was broken down. Besides, a cloud of dust and milled feedstuffs. Fowls cackled in panic, followed by the beasts.

It troubled an aged bearded man, who was the only soul outdoors, as he was fetching water from the well. The sunlight was too direct over the valley and the people just stayed in their cozy bungalows. Keogh could not move yet with his body battered much and cuts smarting all over his bare torso down to his legs where his shorts were almost totally ripped. O the pain, once again. His groans of pain had settled down when he spotted a rake on its way through the dusty cloud to Keogh's head. Before it would scrape his face open, Keogh rolled over the other side. The animals panicked all around. Then, he jumped to his feet, out of the smashed cart. His sword―he was drawing none from his side.

"I do not mean to intrude!" he just declared with regressive steps. "I just had―"

Then, the rake, with the enraged man, swished from the thickness of the cloud. He was not listening at all. He ran to Keogh and the latter scurried to any direction his feet would take him. He could not evade so fast, feeling the lingering hurt from his fall. Not a problem, the old man still ran slower than him over age.

"Intruder!" the man yelled. He never believed Keogh.

From their bungalows, the people came out to their porches. Juveniles frightened next to their rather calm parents. The fowls squawked, flying when Keogh ran by, as well as the bigger animals with scared noises. The place was so small; Keogh could determine. The two had circled it thrice, just to create clouds of dust all around.

"He is from a military order!" a younger man's voice resounded. It echoed across the spaces of the hamlet.

That message discontinued the old man's desperate chase. Keogh was catching his breath behind the shabby gates made of pales, a number of yards from the old man. Eyes on him, reminding him of the Lyrrian women's cold welcome. But this time, the greeting of the rake was way more violent than Qiba's scythe.

"Like I said," wheezed Keogh, "I didn't mean to intrude."

Nothing reacted until the animals settled down but the clouds of dust were so thick it could not be swept by the wind so easily.

"Then, what or who sent you here?" the old man asked, now casual, with a croaky voice.

The younger man butted in from behind, from the cart. He had in hand Keogh's broadsword with the pendant still knotted, fortunately.

"The hilt has an emblem that I cannot recognize," the young man said. "But there's something etched on it." He could not read. Comprehended.

"I came all the way from…Helmdock, of the east; now conquests of the Diltan men," Keogh provided the answer, still catching his breath but it was the dust he was catching.

"Who sent you here? Why aren't you with your troop?"

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that at once. It's been a long journey for me."

He saw his sword being tossed to him. It clanged on the rocks before his feet and he picked it up.

"Then, just leave," suggested the old man.

Yes, of course, he would leave just now.

"Certainly, I shall," he affirmed. "But I have two questions I believe any of you can answer."

"Ask," the old man immediately agreed.

"I need a direction to somewhere with a name that I'm afraid I could no longer pronounce."

"How can we be of help if you yourself cannot say the place's name?"

Keogh stood still, humiliated. The old man murmured to the young man behind him then left.

"Your second question?" the old man asked.

Keogh should not move on with the first question―the more significant one―unanswered. But he could no longer miss the chance to ask the other and last question that could also be of the same weight. "Is anyone here that could make him or herself known―who salvaged me from the sea? If it's one of you here, then I want to let you know how I owe my life to you. And I thank you profusely."

"No one risks leaving this place to paddle by the sea, soldier."

Keogh felt mortified again. The young man came back from one of the bungalows that seemed to be theirs with a rolled brown paper. He proffered it to Keogh.

"That's the map," the old man explained as Keogh received it, "prepared by my son who travelled for years. Thus, that's precise."

Keogh unfurled the hard paper. It was indeed a map of the small continent clearly drawn with some dark brown material, complete with names of several places which he found some very unfamiliar.

"Now, leave!" the old man said. "We have met your conditions."

Keogh nodded his head to thank, pertaining to the map rolled again in his fist. He was about to turn away when his stomach rumbled. Starve, from his days of blackout. Above the stillness of the ambiance, it sounded loud. Mortified, for the third time.

"Let him stay overnight," an old feminine voice from the same house's doorway cut in, distinct enough to the ears. "He seems so hungry from his long journey."

The old man wished to disagree but he could not resist his wife. Even the young man between them scowled. Besides, Keogh was transparently not an intruder, like he evidenced through his sword, or someone with wicked intentions. A meek face like his could hardly suggest that. And a meaty dinner sounded good for him; he grinned.

As the wife was preparing a scrumptious supper before the dark would prevail, Keogh was treated by a young woman who seemed to be the sister of the old man's subordinate who was in fact a grandson. She replaced the cloth around his skull with a better one. And it looked like she was admiring her "patient". She never stopped giving a coquettish glance to Keogh's blue eyes and would leer. She was charming, as well, with long braided hair as auburn as his brother. Keogh tried to smile back but the little stings from the wounds he got from his fall would hamper. Also, Santi, the grandson, was around, watching his sister. So, Keogh would rather behave.

Santi was very nearly as old as Keogh but the latter had bigger build; Santi was sinewy but taller. Her sister, Eidin, was four years younger; her brittle skin could tell. Both of them hazel-eyed. They grew up under the guardianship of the old couple for having wandering parents as merchants. Joab, the old man, was the eldest among the village.

Lanterns. Four of them in different sizes and radiance lighted over the table full of meat and flesh of the hamlet's animals. The delectable aroma swallowed each and every inch of the murky house of dusts. And crickets and cicadas and toads outdoors replaced the clucks and bellows. The community had been eating meat for the rest of their lives; Keogh, now clothed with the hamlet's common wear―sweatshirt and sackcloth trousers, was already mouthwatering while Santi, Eidin, and Joab looked blank. The two boys would never cease observing even Keogh's little moves. Trust was still an issue to them. This hamlet really resembled Lyrrio which, on the other hand, had undying fish.

"I made your favorite, Eidin," said Joab's wife, Marim, as she lastly put something onto the table that was almost crammed with serving plates and bowls.

"Roasted capon!" Eidin cheered. "Did you stuff my favorite beans and grass?"

"Kidney beans, Reyem seeds, lemongrass, and scallions! I could not possibly forget."

When everyone had everything in their dishes and Keogh demurely munched, old Marim initiated a conversation.

"I guess we now have ample time for the young soldier amongst us to talk about being apart from his men. So, who sent you here?"

Keogh scanned the people around the table. The boys now had their eyes at their dishes. Obviously, they didn't want to listen. Eidin's at Keogh's, very attentive.

"I am not in actuality a soldier," Keogh confessed.

Now, everyone gave Keogh the same glare, including the young Eidin. Joab stood up, stepped aside, and raged, "That is what I am talking about!"

"You are just like any other intruder!" concurred Santi, now also on his feet. "Grandpa―"

Santi was about to leave the table to find his dagger when Marim very calmly said, "Let him finish. Back to your seats, gentlemen."

"I am not the soldier," Keogh expounded. "I am the soldier's son. But I am likewise as trustworthy as any soldier."

"Sit back and eat, gentlemen," Marim ordered again. This time, only Santi followed.

"How much could we guarantee that you deserve our trust, especially of my wife?" Joab asked firmly.

"As much as my life, Sir," Keogh chimed in. "You may keep my father's weapon tonight till I leave in the morning for I cannot leave without it to protect me. And you may frisk me every now and then, head to toe, if you please. Take this from a chivalrous son that I am, from someone who was raised in a disciplinary environment."

Joab was well-nigh convinced. Keogh unmistakably grew up to be a man like Sir Harmond―the voice, the countenance, the logic, and their firmness.

"Indeed, prejudice will never help you resolve, old man," stated Marim.

Joab sat again, back to his eating.

"Well, prejudice is never wrong if you mean to save your family and the hamlet from harm," Joab partly opposed as he forked a sliced piece of Eidin's favorite.

"Such adamant mind, Joab," Marim muttered.

"Sir, I vow with all my heart," Keogh broke in. "I swear over these graces of Balaccun."

It shut the old Joab that he just bit what he forked. Clattering dishes somehow occupied the dead air from the squabble.

To break the ice a little more, Marim started interrogating again, "You mentioned you're off to somewhere else. Have you already identified from the map which one?"

"Jad Hen," Keogh answered, now self-assured.

"You have an undertaking in Jad Hen? Jad Hen is already a refuge itself. It's the place of worship. It's All-powerful Balaccun's earthly promised land. It apparently needs no military or human protection."

"No, Ma'am. I am only a son of the knight, not the knight. I have no protective mission in Jad Hen."

"Then, what made you want to go there?"

"I am looking forward to seeing my mother in Jad Hen. We parted ways when I was twelve."

"If you don't mind?"

Keogh narrated his childhood story that might end till the last piece of meat. He got everyone's heed. As he mouthed every detail of it, he further burned to finally reconcile with his mother, just wishing the daylight would strike now.

"I came from the island of Lyrrio where I spent my three years after Helmdock's downfall," Keogh added to his telling. "Then, when I got the instinctive call of reconciling with my mother, I secretly left with the bad weather that seemed to disregard your area. The waves never bore with me. I crashed down to the sea and I woke up one morning after days, still breathing air."

"You were saved by someone else's soul whom you were trying to thank. We just don't think he or she came from here," Marim said. "I don't also think it's Yeth. She never liked the seas."

"Yeth?"

"She's a young huntress. But don't bother. I am certain that she's not the one you're looking for."

"Well, I guess, the 'thank you' was rather fated to you. I never ate these meats for years."

It made Marim and her granddaughter smile.

"Your way to Jad Hen will be short," Joab finally spoke. "It's north from here, but then I believe you are not told of the Flomulie Gria."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Flomulie Grias are the women of spring. They _grow_ concurrently in random parts of Onil when springtide kicks off. Might as well be on your way to Jad Hen. But these creatures are deadly―poison ivies and monkshoods, in spite of the beauty and lure that they indisputably possess. They tend to attack humans and animals alike for nourishment."

"Oh please," Eidin interrupted. "Stop calling them 'women'. They are monsters! Behind those beautiful faces are hideous fiends."

The description harmonized to the femme fatale that Keogh spotted over the mountaintop. He was shaken.

"I haven't heard this creature before," he remarked. "Either of my parents hasn't told me about this back when I was a child. Only wolves and not talking to strangers."

"Grias do not grow everywhere. They grow where grass and loam flourish," Marim imparted. "That gives me an idea that probably Helmdock was not conducive to tilling. Or your homeland's soil was not thoroughly loam. Grias love it loamy."

Joab continued, "They enigmatically arise from monster buds―oversize floras that you never saw before and would never believe you are seeing. So, if you would encounter one that seems to spit blood, burn it up without more ado."

"And don't look to their eyes," Santi added, sounded like he already encountered one. "It magnetizes you. Can be inevitably tempting but have control over yourself."

"These creatures also tend to track their victims that they have unfinished businesses with, especially good-looking men or those they find attractive."

Keogh cleared his throat in disbelief after hearing Joab's last statement. He supped water from his glass. Could the conscious, suggestive look that the Gria left Keogh with be counted as an unfinished business?

"Do they have weaknesses?" Keogh took the chance to ask. "I am positive they have."

"Their skin is as delicate as ours. Any cutting blade will do," Joab answered. "But with your sword, it'll be tough. I recommend using long-range weapons, like arrows and spears. Throw rocks at them or anything."

"But they're agile attackers," Santi added, "with rather uncanny sharp senses and instincts. And they can mysteriously command the florae."

"Roots creeping everywhere to grip you, and then thorny vines, and leaves."

Grias sounded grueling for Keogh. Or were they really difficult? Their descriptions were convincing and threatening enough.

All of the dishes were about to empty when the moving discussion came to an end. Out of the four lanterns, only two remained on fire. Before everyone called it a night, old Joab did not mind keeping Keogh's sword as the latter suggested. Trust was now seemed to be established. Crickets and cicadas remained noisy under the starless skies―lullabies to Keogh's ears, making his sleep so sound.

Before cocks announced the start of a new day, Keogh already left Reyem. With him were the map; a present from Eidin―a canvas sling bag of remedies and tonics; the garments Santi lent him; and the advices that Joab and his family imparted. Northward he walked off and to the valley, beyond the shabby gates made of pales.

**Pronunciation Guide**

The following names of characters, places, etc. are enumerated sequentially according to when they were mentioned. Should there be exclusions, please refer to pronunciation guides of preceding chapters.

Joab- dʒouæb

Santi- sæn'tee

Eidin- ai'deen

Marim- mæ'rim

Flomulie Gria- flo'mjoo'lee gra'jah

Reyem- re'jɅm


	4. Chapter 3

Three

White Lily

"_I know they are deadly."_

The hallway to the sanctum was strangely emptied. No celebrants but the floral scent of the candles and censers, the crackle of scorching coals, and the oil they smeared over their bodies. No footsteps, no murmurs, no hums. Even on the shrine's ground and uppermost floors. The reddish rays of light were just about to perish over the horizon yet the celebrants strangely went and disappeared. Shrill chants led by Old Mili and her priests and priestesses were customarily expected to be reverberating until the first hour of the evening―loud chants and mantras welcoming the nightfall. Only crickets in the deafening silence. Balaccun's life-size golden idol suspended above Old Mili's dais was left all alone, eyeing no prostrating worshipper beneath him.

"Where is everyone?" under her breath, a shrine caretaker asked another who just shook her head. The whisper seemed to resound across the hallway.

Even the caretakers of the shrine had no idea. This midday, they could still hear Old Mili leading the chant through the doors of their gathering chamber. Then, found all of this silence when they had to perform their tasks after the midday shift. The hallways were never emptied unless it was bedtime. Hallways might be emptied but the chants were still distinct through the main altar's heavy gilded doors. Bu the three levels of the shrine were all left unoccupied. It made them all ponder and clueless. Then, they heard a gong. Against the silence, it was nearly earsplitting. It was the signaling call coming from the caretakers' chamber.

As soon as all of them were collected inside the small room of empty spaces, the overseer, without further ado, made an announcement.

"I understand that you, including myself, are all questioning. The nightfall shift is shelved until the next. Dame Mili is out of the shrine to do sanctification unto a group of culpable unbelievers. Two of them are caretakers. And the other two—forgive me, I can't verbalize."

Everyone was startled with the revelation. They scanned around, trying to figure out who were missing among them.

"Another dispatch?" an older caretaker questioned with a shaky voice.

"It is the practice," riposted the overseer.

The caretakers shifted their faces from baffled to dread. None of them wanted to see the dispatching ritual for a transgressor once again.

"You may watch the ritual if you can stand," the overseer said. "Be back for the daybreak shift."

And he stepped out of the chamber.

The last sanctification for the same misdemeanor was several years ago. Older caretakers could tell how unbearable that was while the young ones were naïve.

Jad Hen was Onil's worship capital. Encircling the shrine were homes of celebrants and the shrine's caretakers. It was also the sanctuary where lost travelers and tramps were embraced and sustained. In return, tireless loyalty in the shrine should be devoted. It was a fort for wounded warriors, as well. Pilgrims from in and out the continent were always welcome. "Devotion to Balaccun" was the primary and only rule that every one of them should enliven. While in its bounds, the inhabitants' loyalty valued more than their lives and they would be living as holy as its clergy. Anyone who would contravene the rule corresponded to a sentence of death for they merely believed that sinners should perish.

Not every resident watched Old Mili and the rest of the clergy perform the ritual for the ascertained unbelievers but the courtyard was packed. Among, early sorrows from the sinners' kin were wailing. There were four of them, kneeling on the bare ground before the stairs of the shrine where an idol of Balaccun was cemented over the expansive entryway. On either side of the top tread were poles of torches. Two of them were parents of two who were embraced by Balaccun for once being vagrants. And the other two were caretakers, familiar friends of the couple, no other kin. All of them with trembling shoulders, sniffling. Their hands were tied behind them and their heads were covered with gauzy white veil. A woman in a plain white robe was behind them, holding a tattered gilded tome. Old age was evident in her wrinkled face and sagging ears. And her grey hair, which she barely cut as a part of her exclusive devotion, was draping at her feet. Standing behind her in half-circle were five men and two women of varied ages, clad in the same garment as the old woman's, embracing the same book but in smaller sizes, and torches in their free hands.

"Tonight, every one of us will be living witnesses of a sanctified rite," the old woman, Mili, commenced the ceremony very gradually, "a ceremony that I shall not do for the mere sake of sentencing our dear brothers on their knees before the All-powerful. However, this is to awaken our core, especially our young sons and daughters, that faithfulness unto Balaccun corresponds death, and to intensify observance of our simple rule. We all die worshipping. And those who tire from—"

"Dame Mili!" a daughter of the couple, who seemed to be a caretaker, hollered among the crowd. "Please! Just spare them!"

"Those who tire from devotion shall die before any of the faithful. No unbeliever deserves salvation."

Old Mili opened the book she was holding, so heavy that she carried it with her full arms. One of the priests stepped beside her to light her readings. She riffled through the timeworn pages until she found what she was looking for. Then, she intoned an invocation. The priests and priestesses responded until the rest of the grieving celebrants recited along. The sinners wailed.

"To the noose," commanded Old Mili after her long invocation.

As the Old Mili pronounced the word, everyone cried and howled. The sinners were escorted by the priests to the dead leafless tree on the edge of an overhang of land. The branches still had remains of the last same death punishment several years ago when the tree was still thriving—cut ropes around its branches, sturdy enough to carry weight. Also, new ropes for the four sinners were entwined beforehand. Below every noose were plywood boxes to where the sinners should stand.

"O Balaccun! We offer you the lives of our defiant brethren," Old Mili prayed to the skies with arms in a gesture of supplication the minute the sinners were settled on the boxes with heads in the nooses. "Take their souls and shall be purified anew. Once again, your absolution from the deeds of these sinners we beseech through us."

Everyone, except the grief-stricken families, responded, "Let it be."

Old Mili nodded to her subordinates, cueing. With a long shaft, the priests forcefully rammed the boxes off the overhang and down the drop.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the top her lungs, the daughter bawled. Her brown eyes widened.

…

He never thought the valley would take the whole day walking and still had to cross one more short mountain pass in the morning before glimpsing the "tall golden shrine", as Old Joab described. Keogh spent the night on the tundra following the valley, reminiscent to the savannah where he stopped by after his escape from Helmdock. As empty and still. But the springtide seemed to disregard the humid place—no single petal, no single leaf. The moon was beaming enough to light his surroundings of glimmering dampness; he never risked building a bonfire to be traced by opportunistic wanderers. He was praying to Balaccun no one would attack in the midst of his coveted rest, like those Diltan men.

He was leaning on a boulder of lichens. He was trying to sleep but his mind remained wakeful. Besides the nasty feeling of the watery ground beneath him, he was contemplating things he didn't mean to—his mother, and the possibility that she might already left Jad Hen to find him or she might be dead; the Flomulie Gria; and the monstrous grey dog. The gravity of this journey would sink to nothingness if he would not see her mother to the place he was heading to. The Gria he found on the plateau—when would they meet again for her apparently unfinished business with him? But he was not supposing that the look she gave him before running away was significant or some kind of business. Joab's family seemed to threaten him overly; very effectual. Lastly, the dog and its archer. Could those be enemies? They could be everywhere with the beast's capability to jump as high as the trees. He was troubled if they saw his face on the mountain. Then, triggered by these thoughts, he suddenly considered he should see a companion this time—a friend in this journey; he could not overpower those things all by himself. He never had a best friend since then or a pet animal like what the archer had; just his parents. And the squires, they never had the same interests as his. Out of the blue, he recalled somethingsomeone. It made him smirk.

"I know you're with me," Keogh guessed, "right this moment."

He was pertaining to the Samaritan—his persistent stalker. He could sense it. His inexplicable gut feeling functioned again. He was sure he heard not only his own footsteps across the valley.

"But I know not where you are," he added. "Behind me and this rock? Or at a distance, so you could peek without my knowledge? Come on out. I think I am in dire need of some companionship for tonight —or a friend, why not?—until I get to see my mother."

Crickets. Only insects seemed to hear him.

"You must be the one who saved my life from the seas!" Keogh never stopped. "Then, I must take this moment forever to thank you. I will endlessly be thankful till the day I see you."

Still, crickets in the stillness of the evening breeze. Unpredictably, Keogh nodded off. At last.

He was awakened the next day by big stings over his face. Ants—large ones! Keogh jumped to his feet and shook his yellow hair that already leveled his shoulder blades. The red insects fell to the mud and crept away. He could feel the bites on his forehead and under his chin jutting out like boils. It wasn't hurting but itchy. Then, as he checked his things at his feet, he found something he never believed would be around the tundra and something that he knew he didn't have. The most common flower that he saw by the valley, a spotless white lily. It made him smile—slight but meaningful. He knew it was from the stalker. And now he knew that "it" was a "she". He knew it! He faced back when he had picked it up while taking a sniff. No one, nothing, but the plainness of the tundra of wet earth that would never dry under the new sun. He kept the flower in his pocket and left.

He was alone over it; only insects hovering. Seemed like this tundra was not the wisest passage for a prudent wanderer. But he found no choice, no other way. A few more kilometers and he could surpass these wet lands. To get across gave him a hard time; it slowed down his walk; the plain was awfully mud-spattered and soggy. But he was positive the place was as safe and sound as the valley. And he was as positive that he could get through before the sun set. He should; he could. Distracting himself from his struggle, he was attempting to overhear the stalker behind him; if he could perceive her feet sticking from the mud like his. But he was negative to surprise someone else behind. Would it be the gut feeling or some paranoia?

The low heavens were nearly burned ochre so as the sun started to descend when his bedraggled toes were finally overlaid with dusts of the mountain pass. It was a bald mountain rearing above a winding, manmade passageway. Slight debris would be rumbling down from above. And to the right of the pass were crags, sloping to the depth of hollow echoes of shrieking feathered creatures. One mistaken blow of gust would steer you down to the emptiness. A short mountain pass yet so unsafe and narrow enough for two men. Still, he found himself all alone but he knew this was the best and only way that any prudent wanderer would consider. It never hindered Keogh; he had taken his first forty fearless steps.

When he almost felt he had made it halfway, he could hear tread once again, trying to accord with his. But she could not. Keogh smirked as he continued his walk. He stopped. And so was she. He moved. And still, so was she. Then, he twisted back in a second. No soul. How quick! How reflexive! But there was something left. Another sprig of fresh white lily on the dirt.

As his sight locked at the flower ahead of him, dumbfounded, he ran his right hand to his pocket and he still felt the petals, now cold and delicate over time. He drew to pick the other up. When he was crouching to the plant, he felt something running over his shoulder. He turned back to see a familiar face right before his. He was pushed by his surprise onto the ground. Her tresses, brushing against his legs. Still on the ground, he was gaping at the figure before him. His heart pounded hysterically.

"I knew you were watching me," the Gria said, ogling. Her voice sounded like chimes—soothing, mesmerizing.

She was never more unclothed. She had stolen a white fabric, made a fluid robe out of it, and made a descended goddess out of it. Her yellow hair tied up neatly at the back of her head and hung down to her navel.

She continued talking; ambling towards the wordless Keogh and in her hand was another lily, "Come with me, pretty being. I know a place where we can be alone."

Running across his mind was everything Joab and his family warned and taught him. He bowed his head to hide his eyes.

"You can't trick me, monster!" Keogh stammered.

Then, he felt her fingers on his chin. Her smell, as good as rose.

"Look at me, beautiful stranger," the Gria breathed. "I know you desire of me, as well. No man of Onil has foregone the craving."

Keogh still closed his eyes shut, detaching his chin from her subtle touch.

"Don't touch me, monster," he hissed, "before I give in to my temptation of splitting your skin!"

She giggled and said, "That's what I adore most on men. Gallant. So chivalrous. And scrumptious."

Her giggle. It sounded like a blissful cherub, somewhat knee-weakening. Then, her hand stroked Keogh's leg upwards. He could hear her breathe at his ear until her lip nearly touched it. Keogh got back to his feet hastily; his hairs rose hard, and then drew his sword from his side. He saw the Gria stood slowly, leering.

"You won't love it when this blade goes into you," Keogh threatened her.

"But you will love it when you go into me," the Gria teased then did the same weakening giggle.

Her tongue was especially deceitful. Plus her eyes, a man would indisputably give in. And Keogh could hardly hold himself not to. No man could. Even to wound or bruise this woman was something premeditated. Keogh could not believe himself now; he thought wrong on the stalker. It was the wrong stalker, not the Samaritan. He couldn't believe that he could hardly hold himself not to look or steal glimpses at the beautiful perfection before him.

"I must be a frozen cadaver before I get myself into you!" Keogh spoke with so much bravery, wriggling his fingers on the hilt. "I am not like the other men you ensnared and ate alive!"

By Keogh's taunts, the Gria seemed to have a change of heart, insulted, goaded. She leveled her arm to the mountain. With hardening fingers somewhat made a part of the mountain pass rumble, fissure, and then large roots crept out of the crack, behind Keogh. Before he noticed, the roots had grabbed a hold of both ankles. Then, more crept out of the fissure to hold the rest of Keogh's limbs, losing his sword. He was now suspended and helpless and immovable, just his head and fingers. The roots clang so tough. The Gria giggled again as she walked to her captive.

"Now, look into my eyes," she said as soon as her face inclined to Keogh's.

Keogh flung his face out of her sight. But she moved it back to where she could see one handsome manly face. Keogh shut his eyes firmly.

"Open your eyes," the Gria whispered, stoking his tousled hair, "so you can watch your blade fall."

When he heard the intimidation, he hurriedly opened his eyes. His broadsword was now held by another root off the crag. It swung in the wind.

"NO!" Keogh yelled.

"Your eyes, swordsman," the Gria said again. "Lay them onto mine. You shall see your dearest mother the time you disclose your eyes for the second time."

Keogh was completely caught off-guard. Nothing could save him now but the favor the Gria was asking. His hands and legs were hopeless. He shifted his eyes to the woman reluctantly and she smirked. It only took a few seconds before Keogh was cast under her magnetism. His eyes were stuck open, stationary. The body was no longer Keogh's. Tenderly, the Gria kissed his mouth, making Keogh weak, as well as his eyes that finally grew heavy then shut. The roots snaked back to the fissure, handing Keogh to the Gria till Keogh had given in; he was now kissing the monster back desirously. He neither received nor gave such a kiss in his life.

Unknowingly, his skin was turning violet as their intensifying pleasures prolonged. Both of them were now half-naked and impartially gratified. Behold two hedonists clad in dust. The Gria paused to let her teeth grow into fangs as Keogh was beneath her. Fangs that were so long her mouth could not handle, ripping her lips apart. In dire appetite, she was salivating. The face of the divinity was destroyed, now prepared to consume her victim.

"WOOSH!"

An arrow almost struck her head out of nowhere! It sank into the hardness of the bottom of the mountain. It infuriated her, delaying her cannibalistic hunger. She got on her feet and scanned around. At her feet, white fluids burbled, vomited out of Keogh's mouth, and his body was impulsively trembling. The color of his skin aggravated, darkened. He was now envenomed by the Gria's kiss.

Along the physical transformation to her real identity, the Gria's feminine voice was replaced by animalistic growls. No more chimes or cherubs. She growled to the open spaces, very enraged. It echoed beneath the crag. Then, a roar resounded from the bald mountain, followed by one more arrow which finally hit the Gria in the shoulder. It growled louder in pain, sending feathered inhabitants to the air in panic. She removed it with trembling hands, crying with shrill noises. Immediately after the arrow was excruciatingly taken off, she summoned the roots once again to seize the grey beast round its neck. It yelped, tugging the root from the earth but its strength could not overpower. Before the archer behind the beast would pull out one more arrow from the quiver, the Gria had flown down the crag, fleeing for the second time.

She had exited but the grip of her root round the beast's neck was left entangled and tough. Its master sprinted over it. She could not detach it. And the big beast was continually yelping like a small dog in hurt. Her arrow would not work on this; the root was too thick and strong. She scanned around to see Keogh's sword on the edge of the crag. She hurdled down the rocks briskly with her long legs and picked it with no consent of the ill owner. As soon as she got back to her animal, she swished it from her back and hacked the root apart. The big animal panted, relieved. Then, the archer hurdled back down again to Keogh who had just discontinued from vomiting. His sanity was now recovered but he was unconscious, and the toxin in him looked exacerbated. She whistled to call her dog.

"Back home, Kasser," she instructed.

She plunked Keogh onto the resilient beast, Kasser, before her and they were sprung uphill.

A one-room hut made of mud, stones, and wood was just below the peak, withstanding the winds so strong. Only bluish-grey rocks surrounded it; no tree or wild grass. And surely this was the archer's house—one of her houses around the region. The mountain pass below was unclear, wreathed in thick mist from the sight above. But up there, the entirety of the continent was almost viewed, as far as how one's vision could. However, nobody could hike up there; the mountain was tremendously vertical and the winds were getting stronger towards the top. Worse would be when going downhill—truly unsafe.

Keogh was treated by the archer in her bed of wood strips. His body was surfaced with curative oblong leaves. Some of these were extracted to juice to tip into Keogh's mouth, still lifeless. She knew best of these infections for she was a woman of the forest. She knew how to handle floral poisons and animal bites. She was conversant on herbs and indigenous procedures. Very evident on how she moved her hand over Keogh's body that was looking better.

Keogh was trying to disclose his eyes. His vision was hazy. But he could recognize the planks over him, the small wooden roof, and the morning light gleaming through the walls of stone. His throat, parched, but his tongue tasted bitter.

"How are you feeling?" the archer asked coldly.

"Where am I?" he questioned huskily.

"Can you sit?" the archer asked back, discounting his question. Concern from her tone could not be found. She really spoke so cold.

Keogh pulled himself up to sit in the bed then her normal sight was restored. No more leaves on his skin. His first question was now answered; he saw himself in a small house. Standing before him was the archer he spotted on the plateau, holding the flask of medicine that Eidin gave him.

The girl was lovely. And she was years older than Keogh. Her face was tawny and smooth, as well as the rest of her body; never been burned or suntanned by the sunlight where she might always be. Her hair, shoulder-length and ebony. Small and dark grey were her eyes that looked like the moon. She was in a dark brown tunic with brown leather belt accentuating her small midriff. And in her feet, a pair of shoes in canvass with leather soles.

"I found tonics in your bag," she said. "These can help for your faster recovery."

"Thank you," Keogh said as he received the bottle and gulped it straightaway.

"My name is Yeth," the archer said when she turned her back to get another thing from Keogh's sling bag.

"I'm Keogh."

Yeth turned to Keogh again to wrap a new sepia cloth, still from Eidin's present, around his forehead with the wound still bad. Then, she started roving around her house's selfish spaces as she was preparing a humble breakfast.

"Where did you come from?" Yeth interrogated again.

"Helmdock," Keogh replied.

"Does your head feel better?"

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"You were captivated by the Gria."

"Then?" he chimed in. Eagerness was in his tone.

"You gave in and screwed her."

She giggled. He could not recall, even the sensation.

"You were poisoned, desperately poisoned. Didn't you know that a Gria's saliva could be as poisonous as bloodroot or poison hemlock?"

"I know they are deadly."

"You should be careful next time. Where are you heading?"

"Jad Hen. I'm seeing my mother that I last saw when I was twelve. How about you? Don't you have a family?"

"I have. But I don't have an idea where they are; if they're still alive or still in the same village. I've become the resident huntress of this extent or the savior of travelers who take the mountain pass after I left home. My parents thought that my lucan was grisly; then harm and slay when it grew up. Yes, I preferred my animal over them. I would never allow anyone touch it; he once saved my life. And they never considered that."

Keogh was quieted, feeling sorry.

"Are you a knight or—"

"My father is the knight. And that was his sword."

"Speaking of your sword… It saved Kasser's life. So, I never thought twice on bringing you up here to cure you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Kasser, my lucan—the doggy outside that looks like a wolf, as how people define him. But the fact is he's more of a wolf. The Gria seized him with her radix when we found you."

Keogh suddenly remembered his conversation with Marim about Yeth—that Marim was certain she was not the Samaritan. He thought of trying to ask. She could be the Samaritan. As to herself proclaiming a "savior", she could be the salvaging stalker he was indebted to.

"Have you been on a shore or anywhere near the sea?" he began to ask.

"Lucans have strange fright on seawater," Yeth replied. "So, I never go to such places."

"You and Kasser are indeed inseparable!"

Yeth just smiled and added a very nosy question, "What about the shore?"

"None," Keogh almost stuttered and added, "Can I leave in the morning?"

"Anytime tomorrow. I myself can guess the excitement to finally meet your mother; Jad Hen is just a kilometer away from here. You can stay longer."

"I shall waste no more time. I have wasted too much of it. It just chanced that I was ambushed and it obstructed my journey."

"Here. The food's prepared."

From outdoors, Kasser caught the aroma of Yeth's salad of basil, tomato, and assorted greeneries; he barked, ravenous.

…

"Euna," her eighteen-year-old younger brother called from the dining table, bringing her out of her reverie as she stared motionlessly through the window. "Breakfast's ready."

Euna's eyes were still engorged from grieving for two nights. For two days, she was constantly gazing through the same window, thinking profoundly. She barely ate and talked to her brother. She never showed up in any of her shifts in the shrine—that their overseer empathized. Having parents sentenced to death was legit. However, losing them was a different angle of this story as a child. Until now, she couldn't believe that they were unbelievers of the god that she had been serving every day of her life; even those caretakers that were also punished along.

Each family should have at least one caretaker. As a very sensible firstborn, she volunteered to be her family's representative when she went nineteen; her father resigned, as what she would want. Mothers were not eligible; the religion believed that they were born and made for the households.

She could no longer find her life, her happiness. It was like groveling in the dark for the missing needle. Being a caretaker indeed had drawn herself closer to Balaccun. Loyalty might have been established but she could never spare the rest of her family's execution. She seemed to feel the wrong unbelieving probability tickling in her skin. How could Balaccun endure watching his people take each other's life?

Her brown eyes were up to something else. She had been contemplating on it for two days. She got off the stool and hurried to her brother.

"We're leaving," she said under her breath, holding her brother's hand.

Her brother gaped at her.

**Pronunciation Guide**

The following names of characters, places, etc. are enumerated sequentially according to when they were mentioned. Should there be exclusions, please refer to pronunciation guides of preceding chapters.

Mili- mee'lai

Yeth- jæө

Lucan- loo'kɅn

Kasser- kæs'sir

Euna- joo'nah


	5. Chapter 4

Four

Secrets of Jad Hen

"…_the rest of the people across Onil cannot survive to understand..."_

"I can't," Yeth disagreed on the idea. "I can't leave the region. Travelers will need me."

With his hand, Keogh brushed Kasser's bushy grey fur; face down from facing the flickering sunrise, a little saddened. He was trying to induce Yeth to join him on his journey and so she could see her family again, like his.

"I shall not stay any longer then," Keogh concluded with a low tone.

"If you're feeling any better, Kasser could give you a ride to the margin of the pass," Yeth offered.

"That would be excellent."

Keogh rose from the rock he seated himself, followed by the lucan from his lazy sprawling. The animal could astoundingly comprehend human language.

"Before you leave," Yeth said then she walked into the hut.

She came back in a trice with a desiccated bow smaller than her other one she was using now.

"Accept this," she said, handing the bow to Keogh. "It's timeworn but still of good use. The arrows—you're from Helmdock; you know how to make one from branches. You may well shape finer ones than mine, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Yeth," Keogh said, all smiles, as he got the wooden weapon. "This will certainly be of good use."

"Now, go. And don't let another or the same Gria rape you. Or vice versa."

He chuckled on the joke as the lucan bent his long body down for Keogh to mount.

"Don't fly too fast, Kasser," his master instructed. "He has never ridden a beast, not even a horse."

Before Keogh could open his mouth to thank another time and bid farewell when he got on the lucan's bushy spine, they had sprung down the mountain. Fast as the wind. Such a disobedient animal. There was nothing to hold on to Kasser while they flew downhill. No harness, no rope; just his long fur. Keogh almost embraced the beast's body just to cling.

It took them just a few minutes to reach the margin, divulging a seemingly boundless sandy plain. And over the starkness, Keogh could finally view the gilded figure of the shrine atop a rising land on the edge of a sheer drop. Behind was an expanse backdrop of open air, free winged creatures, sapphire skies, immense clouds, and all infinite. Dull blows of wind along the mountain pass were now serene breezes, kissing his face turning radiant. The tower was lofty, cylindrical, covered in gold paint, segmented into three stories, and oddly deprived of windows. Its roof, in darker gold, was pointing sharply to the skies as his broadsword. The bright color of the structure gleaming under the newly risen sun signified brand new hope. His mother was now at hand.

He patted Kasser's head and the lucan left like a bolt from the blue. Through the sands, he started approaching the sloping path ascending towards the shrine. As seen, no gate or fortification to safeguard; everyone else was accepted. Indeed, as Marim defined, Jad Hen needed no military protection. No sentinel in sight. Thus, Keogh was self-assured he would likewise be welcomed. Again, as he walked, he looked as if he was being charmed by another Gria—steps were ceaseless and eyes unblinking at the shrine that grew bigger and higher as he got closer.

_Mama, I'm approaching_, he thought endlessly with every step he made. The second he found himself standing at the foot of the mounting path, he moved uphill.

On the flat crest, greeting his interested eyes was a straight path, leading to concrete stairs into the shrine lobby following a courtyard. Cardboard, plywood, and stones—the houses on the sidewalk were made of these, and with windows having no panes. For shade against the direct light, canvases and blankets on stilts overhang on either or both sides of the houses. Found outdoors were a few residents, uniformly clad in white material—now faded yellowish over time—in diverse cuts, and turbans, making their dark complexion stand out. What stunned Keogh was the stillness of the atmosphere. Very silent. Even the people's countenances were blank, serene. Keogh never was given a long look to speculate on his arrival. As he unhurriedly progressed along the path, he heard echoes from the shrine. Mantras and chants led by an aged feminine voice—prayers that his parents never taught or recited to themselves or he himself had heard. Then repeated. Delectable aroma of feast was also sensed. Marim's viand, as delectable, reminded him.

"You belong to the troop of knights of Helmdock," surprisingly, an old woman behind him spoke. "Old Mili is in the shrine at the moment. See her after the prayers and you shall be accommodated."

Keogh turned back to face the voice coming from a window who just eyed his sword.

"I am not, lady," he explained, very courteous. "I am a son of a knight. But right, I came from the east."

"Then, what brought you here instead?"

Keogh heaved a sigh and replied, "I am here for my mother."

"I suppose you were parted, am I correct? And you are here to see her. Well, welcome to Jad Hen, young man."

Keogh gave the woman a tearful smile.

"May the All-powerful Balaccun sanctify you, my child. Your mother should be so lucky to have a son like you," the woman said. "It reminds me of my daughter, Neri. Just the same situation."

"Where is she?"

"She's been sentenced for being an unbeliever. Three days ago."

Keogh was stunned. The old woman deposited misery to her voice, slower than ever, as she continued after clearing her throat:

"She's one of those bodies hanged from the dead tree. I do not desire to see if she's still there until right this moment as we speak. Nor to know."

"I am sorry to hear that," Keogh reacted, sympathizing.

"It's alright, my son. Nobody can question faith and customs. About your mother, I should ask younger ones if I were you. They know names around Jad Hen better than I."

"Pleasure to be welcomed by you, lady. I should go then."

"May the good Balaccun seek what you must for you."

Keogh left the old woman with a slight bow of courtesy and considered her advice—she looked for a younger denizen to finally ask about her mother. He went to an adjacent house where a woman was feeding her tot at their table of plywood.

"Forgive me, lady," he said, standing at the entryway. No door to knock. "May I interrupt you for a question?"

"I think Dame Mili is the person you are looking for," the mother answered affably.

"Just for a name that I suppose you know of."

"Is that so? Then, let me see."

"Fey. Fey Vermiel."

Squinting, the mother gave her child another spoon of porridge, thinking on the name.

"You should ask a caretaker," she rather suggested, refusing to be drawn. Keogh was upset.

"Who's the caretaker?" Keogh asked.

"Caretakers of the shrine, rather. They know people of Jad Hen best. Look for people with veils beneath their eyes or green turbans. Those are the caretakers. The daybreak prayers end the next hour, so you can speak to one of them or, better yet, their overseer."

Keogh left and continued to the courtyard where the echoes intensified as well as the feast's aroma. To his right, he saw a gruesome scene, appearing to be a dirty secret of the hallowed place. His heart forgot to beat in shock. He almost stood back in dread.

He interrogated himself, _A place of worship tolerates views as this?_

He sauntered to the tree with cautious steps and neck tilted to the blackening branches. What a horrible sight to his eyes—lifeless bodies with covered heads hanging over the sharp drop. Enfolding over the tree were squawking feathered scavengers. Some branches were now broken, most probably by the weight of the other carcasses which were now down the cliff. He stopped when he reached below the leafless branches. His head still tilted and cringed to the bodies swinging in the wind.

"Step no further," a youthful female voice resounded from Keogh's right back, somewhat angry.

His head rested down and faced back. A boy with his shoulder embraced by an arm of a young woman stood beneath a wide fluttering canvas of a house's rear. The boy's face was visible, tearful; the woman's concealed with a gossamer veil. But her eyes were clearly as tearful. A caretaker.

"I'm K—"

"Your name is none of my concern, stranger," she cut in. Her voice slightly muffled by the veil. "You look like a soldier. Your sword tells it all. Jad Hen accommodates soldiers with utmost attention but do not touch any of those bodies unless you're here to live for good."

"Lady, I do not attempt any of your suspicions. I came here for a different purpose."

She never responded and, with the boy still in her arm, turned back to leave. He tried to stop them but they continued ambling through the narrow alleyways. He followed them surreptitiously until the three of them reached a house—their house. Keogh discontinued at the doorway as the siblings were packing personal things into a big sackcloth bag.

"Lady," Keogh spoke.

The siblings were startled.

"Why are you following us?" the woman asked, panicky.

Immediately, her brother drew a dagger from his side and aimed it at Keogh. The latter stepped back. He could not believe his eyes that a Jad Hen local could be aggressive.

"Hold your horses!" Keogh exclaimed. "I mean no harm, lady."

"You're surrounded by all and sundry," the woman said. "So, swear you do mean no harm on us."

"I only have a question to make. That is all. Then I shall leave."

She could perceive the sincerity in his eyes and between tones.

"Ayhan, hold it down," she ordered his brother, Ayhan.

Keogh started, "I am looking for my mother. She left me and my father when I was younger. And somebody told me that she went here."

"How could I help?"

The two continued packing the rest of their things.

"I am wondering if you know someone by the name of Fey Vermiel," Keogh said.

"Hand me my book," she commanded her brother.

Ayhan yanked a thick paperback from the pile of clothes and proffered to her sister then she tossed it to Keogh.

"Therein is a roll of the Jad Hen people," she described. "Find what you need."

As soon as Ayhan secured the bag closed, packing already through, the two of them stood up, seemingly leaving.

"Hold on," Keogh said.

Ayhan removed the leathery carpet that almost covered the whole floor, revealing a pit, wide enough for one body.

"Where are you going?" Keogh questioned, stuttering.

But none answered. Boldly, the woman sprang into the pit first, followed by Ayhan who held the carpet back upon the pit as he fell down. What Keogh only heard was subdued splashing water from down under.

_They're fleeing!_ he thought.

He would not intend to cause them and himself trouble. Who wanted to be hanged? So, he should rather keep his mouth shut. He even positioned the carpet orderly to secrete recognizable signs of their escape. He could be a blamable witness of this transgression. As much as he wanted to dive into the pit with the two runaways who could impart more, he supposed the book could be an adequate help. He took a sit against a cardboard wall, hiding, and riffled the brittle pages on it to find lists of names.

Fey Vermiel

He found her mother—her name! Keogh allowed a grin he almost cried in exhilaration. But his lips frowned straightaway. Among the page of names, her mother's was crossed out, along a familiar name the old woman mentioned:

Neri Cavall

_This can't be_.

Then, from the shrine, a loud gong resounded throughout the terrain. He almost startled. When he peered out the window above him, people were starting to leave the shrine. The daybreak prayers were done. And he should depart before somebody would realize the absence of the owners of the house he was in. He had no choice but to take the pit and had no more reason to stay. Besides, the caretaker could provide the answer for his further uncertainties; she crossed out names herself. Then, downward he went.

Darkness. He was as if blind as he fell through the pit vertically seamless; he could not see anything, just blackness. Securely, he still had in hand the book. Then, with no notice, air turned to water. The sudden daylight dazzled him. He was now submerged, plummeted into the deep from his high yet momentary fall. As soon as his dive completed, he surfaced with the book still in his grip, gasping for air.

He was now underneath the elevation of land where the Jad Hen civilization stood strong. He could see the pit several meters overhead, skillfully tunneled for the mere purpose of escaping. And luckily, his things were still on him—Yeth's bow, the sling bag, the sword, and the book. He scanned around to find empty seawater. Not until he spotted the nearby shoreline, just across where he was. He swam towards it.

"It aches!"

Keogh heard a young man's voice as he lounged on the shore, squinting to the sun, out of breath.

"Bear it!" a familiar female voice answered the young man.

It was the caretaker and her brother. Keogh got to his feet the minute he heard the caretaker and trailed them into the woodland. They were sitting in a clearing closest from the shore. The woman no longer had her face veiled, baring a beauteous swarthy face. She had Ayhan's bleeding leg on her lap, unknowing on what to perform, on which limb to move.

"Do something!" Ayhan cried. "Aaaaaargh!"

Keogh butted in from the shrubberies. He kneeled before them, placed the drenched book on his side, and touched Ayhan's leg to study.

"Leave it to me. I have remedies on me," he said.

The two were taken aback. Ayhan pulled his leg away from Keogh and his sister nearly stood up.

"You really are shadowing us!" the woman exclaimed. "You have the book! What else do you want?"

Ayhan wailed in pain again. Keogh nodded to him and he stretched his leg again over Keogh's open hands. From the sling bag, he got one of the remaining flasks of remedies and poured it over Ayhan's long cut, intensifying the pain.

"I need a piece of cloth," Keogh told Ayhan's sister and she looked for it from their bag at once.

She hastily ripped a skirt and handed it to Keogh to wind a tourniquet from it.

"Better?" he asked on the last twist of the cloth.

Ayhan nodded with a grimace. Her sister stood on the far side, wordless. Keogh leaned back with his hands and sighed.

"I'm here to probe into the book," Keogh started to speak to Ayhan's sister. "By the way, I'm Keogh, from Helmdock."

"Euna," the woman riposted. "And he's Ayhan, my brother. Thank you for the cure."

Keogh was finally beholding the totality of the caretaker. Her nose was small; lips were thin and crimson; and hair as black as Yeth's but longer, down to the waist. She was svelte, manifest by thin and long limbs. She was still clad in the same stark white clothing. Her brother, Ayhan, nearly looked like her—her lean, masculine ego. His hair, short but droopy over the forehead.

"What does the book lack that have need of more details?" Euna asked.

"Names being crossed out," Keogh answered, anxious. "Why were they crossed out? Even my mother's was!"

"They were so for only two reasons: they left or now dead."

Her last word, the second reason, rang in Keogh's ears. Poignant. He stood.

"Certainly not!" he opposed with eyes enlarged, almost in tears.

His journey to Jad Hen was appearing to be a universal letdown. All of his anguish and struggles were now of void, or starting to.

"I never said that your mother is dead," Euna clarified. "There is the other reason, Keogh. Definitely, Lady Vermiel is not dead."

Keogh stopped an urging tear and himself from letting his mind eaten by poignant truths that were not even certain. He stared at Euna who owed an explanation.

"I know Lady Vermiel," she started explaining and Keogh heeded. "I know almost every one in Jad Hen. Your mother never stayed long as one of us. She left after a few months."

His vision lit again in hopefulness. His spirits soared.

"Where did she go?" he asked under his breath eagerly.

"Pegamal," Euna replied with a heartbreaking tone, "to the best of my knowledge."

Keogh hurriedly pulled the soggy map from his sling bag and searched for the place Euna had just mentioned. The letters were now fading, caused by being soaked. The map was losing its worth.

"It's northeast from Jad Hen," Euna said the second Keogh found Pegamal on the map.

"I should set off," Keogh said as he moved. "I'm wasting my time here."

"Hold on. We have no place to go. Let us accompany you."

Keogh discontinued from turning his back from them as Euna aided her brother to get to his feet but he stood by himself. He could manage.

"Through here we go," Euna hinted.

The woodland was short. It would take over a kilometer to clear out from the towering trees. But with Ayhan limping, they had to slow down. Keogh was vigilant for possible danger as they took the chance to get to know each other.

"Your mother _was_ a noble soul," Euna opened a conversation, breaking the silence. "Before she fled from Jad Hen, she was a hardworking caretaker even if she had no mouth to feed. I never thought she has a son. But yes, you have her eyes."

"She left me with my father eight years ago. She could never endure the truth that my father, her husband, was a knight who might be killed anytime. She chose to leave to repose her heart from seizure. I left Helmdock when my father was killed in a conquest. And I really thought I could finally get to reconcile with her in Jad Hen."

"She took the same pit when she escaped. She desperately asked for it from my parents who were responsible for tunneling it. The pit is the biggest secret and sin Jad Hen has over its grounds. The horrendous death penalty the rest of the people across Onil cannot survive to understand is also one. Before they could make use of it for themselves, they were found unbelievers by a witness that I unsuccessfully know who. I never learned that they made the pit to escape from the faith, and that they really were unbelievers who could no longer stand the notions that for them were lies."

"Your parents are two of those—"

"Yes, the remaining two up there."

Euna never believed herself telling all these without breaking a single tear.

"We took the pit ourselves this time to escape not from the faith but to adore this existence that Balaccun bestowed us," she continued. "I could no longer find the same adoration in Jad Hen since my parents were sentenced. From this time forth, our names on the caretakers' handbooks are ready to be crossed out."

"But absconding can be a sin in your fellows' and Balaccun's eyes," Keogh presumed.

"'Balaccun sees no sin for a pure, upright soul'. My fellows themselves told me that."

Keogh quieted.

"You're lucky you still have one more person to run to," Euna said. "I believe the inscription on your hilt denotes itself. Look at the scars over your body. And the bandage round your head. I suppose they signify your struggles and how lucky you really were to pass those."

Keogh just smiled and asked:

"Have you been or heard anything about Pegamal?"

"They proclaim it's a place of rapture and lights. Very profound as they say. Aside from that, the direction to it."

"Now then, I pray for Balaccun that she's as content as the place for living there. And that she's still there, living."

"Balaccun hears you, Keogh."

**Pronunciation Guide**

The following names of characters, places, etc. are enumerated sequentially according to when they were mentioned. Should there be exclusions, please refer to pronunciation guides of preceding chapters.

Fey Vermiel- fei ver'meel

Neri- neh'ree

Ayhan- ai'hæn

Pegamal- pé'ga'mɔl


End file.
